GIFT  OF 


ct/<>i?^id. 


f  ^  6  ^ 


/"  ■ 


'  i 


:  .■■■v,z4.,-.^a,fummmirim0i^i^' 


■■-^ii. 


^^^K^ 


t    V  t 


j.-a&.'waHttgaBTii.wrt'frnfflfta 


i?l      '■'  t*: 


3VfT^f^ 


By  MYRTLE  REED 


LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A  MUSICIAN 
LATER  LOVE  LETTERS  OF  A  MUSICIAN 
THE  SPINSTER  BOOK 
LAVENDER  AND  OLD  LACE 
THE  SHADOW  OF  VICTORY 
PICKABACK  SONGS 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 
New  York  London 


LOVE  LETTERS 
or  A  MUSICIAN 


By  Myrtle  Reed 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

New  York  and  London 

^be  fcnictierbockei:  presB 

1903 


€!OPYKIGHT,    1898 
BY 

MYRTLE  REED 


Revised  Edition 
Copyright,  1899 

BY 

MYRTLE  REED 


Set  up  and  electrotyped,  May,  1899. 
Reprinted  November,  1899;  May,  1900;  August,  1900; 
October,  1900 ;  November,  1901  ;  January,  iqoi  ;  April, 
1901 ;  September,  1901 ;  October,  1901  ;  April,  1903; 
October,  1902  ;  January,  1903;  July,  1903;  September, 
1903 


fShc  ftnklterbocker  lpre00.  flew  l^drft 


iii 

Contents 

PARTI 

PAGE 

The  Face  in  the  Fire  ....        5 

Contents 

A  Dream      .        .        .        , 

13 

The  Sea  and  a  Shell  . 

19 

The  Blind  Spinner 

.      25 

GOLDENROD  AND  SnOW  . 

'      31 

The  Tide  of  the  Year 

>      37 

A  Dream-Sweetheart  . 

►      43 

Easter 

.      49 

Buried  Music 

•      55 

PART  II 

April's  Ladt 63 

A  Mating-Call     . 

.      69 

The  Dawn  of  May 

•      75 

The  Trumpeters  . 

.      81 

Sunset  on  the  Marsh  . 

.      87 

The  Lost  Path     . 

.      93 

The  Garden  of  Years. 

.      99 

The  Army  of  the  Clover 

.     105 

IV 


%ovc  %cttcvQ  Of  a  /IDusician 


Contents 


PART  III 

PAGB 

The  River  of  Rest      .        .       .       .113 

Roses 

.     119 

Children  of  the  Air    . 

.     125 

A  Woman's  Hand 

.     131 

A  Dream-Ship 

•     137 

The  Moth  and  the  Star     , 

.     143 

Awheel  at  Dawn 

.     149 

Flood  Tide   .        .       .       , 

►     153 

Two  Harvest-Fields    . 

159 

The  Angel  of  the  Darker  Drink 

.     163 

A  Wedding  March 

»       4 

•       4 

»     167 

PART  ONE 


Zbc  face  in  the  five 

Xargo 


Largo 


W==^ 


p   » 


T~f 


-^    -Jf" 


—m w }m- 

r   t   'r 


S?E 


Handel 


^ 


p  r  r  T  ? 


P 


<5F"THe 

yNlVER4S/Ty 

OF 

ZTbe  iface  In  tbe  Jlre 

My  Lady  : 

I  don't  know  just  how  to  tell  you  what  I  Siarflo 
feel  to-night,  for  I  am  little  more  than  a  boy 
and  pretty  badly  confused,  even  for  me.  Your 
letter  is  all  kindness  and  I  can't  tell  you  how 
much  I  appreciate  it,  though  I  cannot  see 
what  you  have  done  that  should  make  you 
ask  me  to  forgive  you.  I  have  known  for  a 
long  time  how  much  I  cared  for  you,  but  I 
thought  1  could  manage  to  keep  it  to  myself. 
I  knew  that  to  tell  you  would  be  but  to  hurt 
you — and  you  know  I  would  not  willingly  do 
that. 

You  are  not  to  blame  if  I  care  for  you,  nor 
am  I,  perhaps — ^but  that  unmerciful  thing  that 
people  call  Fate  or  Providence  or  God.  And 
if  there  is  a  little  of  the  bitter  in  it,  there  is 
much  more  that  is  sweet  and  good  and  beau- 
tiful— like  you. 

It  makes  me  feel  as  if  I  were  near  you,  to 


!!Lov>e  Xetters  of 


intbe 


write  to  you,  and  I  can't  bear  to  feel  that  you 
are  so  far  away.  You  know  all  that  I  would 
tell  you,  and  you  know  that  in  loving  you  I 
love  my  ideal — not  merely  a  woman. 

There  is  one  bright  spot  that  makes  all  the 
gloomy  world  seem  bright.  1  have  n't  lost 
you  !  I  have  n't  lost  you  !  For  you  said  you 
would  be  my  friend  all  your  life,  even  though 
I  didn't  see  you.  That  is  best,  no  doubt, 
for  you  know.  But  you  are  so  vividly 
present  with  me  that  in  writing  to  you  I 
am  doing  little  more  than  talking  to  myself, 
and  you  need  never  know,  my  Lady,  that  I 
have  written. 

Strange  fancy,  is  it  not  ?  To  write  as  if  to 
a  sweetheart,  to  one  who  has  promised  to  be 
my  friend,  but  why  need  it  matter,  if  the 
letters  are  not  sent  ?  I  shall  please  myself  by 
dreaming  that  they  reach  you,  even  if  they 
are  posted  in  the  strangest  of  places — my 
trunk  !  I  am  going  to  cut  a  slit  in  the  side, 
like  a  real  letter-box,  and  put  a  box  inside  to 
hold  them.  Then,  when  I  have  sent  a  letter 
to  you,  I  can  go  on  about  my  work.  I  shall 
always  look  for  the  answer,  though  the  post- 
man seldom  comes  my  way,  and  always,  dear. 


H  /IDustctan 


I  shall  love  you,  though  you  do  not  write  nor 
know. 

I  want  you— just  as  though  I  had  not  given 
you  up  and  that  by  your  own  command.  I 
would  try  hard  to  win  you,  if  I  had  the  right 
to  try.  But  you  are  not  for  me — a  wandering 
musician,  with  only  a  violin  between  him  and 
poverty, — hardship  was  never  meant  for  such 
as  you.  And  it  would  be  that  with  me,  try 
as  I  would  to  shield  you. 

The  winter  outside  to-night  is  no  colder 
than  that  within  my  heart.  Life  stretches  out 
before  me  like  a  bare,  vast  plain.  But  in  fancy 
I  shall  have  you  with  me  until  the  plain  is 
crossed,  and  I  reach  the  open,  unknown  sea. 

There  is  a  fire  on  my  hearthstone  to-night 
and  in  the  flickering  flame  I  see  a  woman's 
face.  No  need  to  ask  what  face  it  is,  for  to 
me  there  is  only  one — ^tender  brown  eyes, 
soft  hair,  and  lips  so  divinely  dear  that  I  love 
them,  even  though  they  have  said  **  no  "  to 
the  question  that  held  my  heart  within  it. 

The  fire  changes  from  rose  to  gold  and  I 
see  you  in  your  different  moods — you  have  as 
many  as  an  April  day.  Sometimes  you  are 
radiant    and    queenly,    sometimes    scornful, 


Ube  jf  ace 
intbe 
jfire 


Xove  atetters  of 


XEbe  ]f  ace 

fntbe 

ffire 


sometimes  merry  or  serious,  sometimes  ten- 
der— ^but  behind  all  the  moods  I  see  the  one 
woman,  with  the  one  crown — womanhood. 

You  would  laugh  if  you  could  see  my  little 
attic  chamber,  with  only  the  fire  and  a  single 
candle  for  light.  But  would  you  laugh? 
Perhaps  your  eyes  would  fill  with  tender  pity, 
for  I  remember  that  I  saw  them  thus,  only 
last  night  when  I  told  you  that  I  loved  you. 

I  am  twenty-five  and  you  are  twenty-one, 
and  I  have  loved  you  four  years  and  never  told 
you.  We  have  been  comrades,  chums,  what- 
ever you  will — ah,  little  girl,  do  you  think 
there  has  been  no  need  for  self-control  ?  And 
I  have  had  but  one  dream  of  you — a  vain  one. 
•  The  firelight  makes  your  face  tender  now, 
and  your  eyes  thrill  me  with  their  sweet 
seriousness.  I  would  not  exchange  that  fire 
for  the  palace  of  a  king,  since  it  enshrines 
your  face.  The  gold  of  it  is  your  soul,  the 
rose  of  it  your  heart,  and  the  warmth  and 
glory  of  it  your  love,  which  waits  for  some- 
one. 

But  you  shall  be  as  fully  mine  as  his,  through 
my  journey  across  the  treeless  plain.  And  at 
the  last,  when  I  reach  the  shore  of  the  sound- 


a  ilDustcian 


less  sea,  1  shall  look  back  once  to  your  face,  as 
I  see  it  in  the  fire  now.  God  bless  you,  dear, 
and  good-night,  and — no,  just  good-night. 


Ube  jface 

intbe 

five 


a  Dream 

Osacetoeo 


II 


CAVATINA 


Raff 


f 


fj   .__JJ    J  ■*  J  J    I    cJ   .   -J    1 


^ 


:^    :S^    It 


la 


a  2)ream 


13 


THE  snow  is  deep  on  the  ground  to-night, 
dear  Lady,  and  the  day  has  been  hard 
for  me.  It  is  only  at  night  in  my  own  room 
that  I  can  think  of  you,  for  the  world  jars  upon 
the  music  that  goes  out  from  my  soul  to  yours. 

I  am  first  violin  in  a  theatre  orchestra  this 
week  and  the  play  is  a  melodrama,  of  the 
pitiful,  pathetic  kind.  There  is  no  room  for 
Art  and  it  is  not  Nature — rather  a  travesty 
upon  both.     But  we  need  not  speak  of  this. 

Last  night  I  dreamed  of  you,  not  for  the  first 
time,  as  you  may  guess.  I  thought  I  had  won 
you  and  then  lost  you,  but  it  was  given  me 
to  follow  you,  in  the  path  of  the  Angel  who 
held  you  fast.     - 

It  was  a  wonderful  journey  through  the  still 
air — ^through  cold  and  trackless  blue,  past 
flaming  suns  and  tender  stars,  among  count- 
less meteors  that  changed  dark  to  day,  among 
the  illimitable  midnights  of  the  universe,  and 


A>ae0toso 


14 


3Lot>e  ^Letters  ot 


B  Bream  away  from  the  far-off  Earth,  where  men  and 
women  love  and  suffer,  and  at  the  best  can 
only  pray. 

But  I  saw  no  star-fields  like  those  eyes  of 
yours,  my  Heart,  and  I  followed  untiringly  the 
grey,  shadowy  mist  that  enveloped  you,  un- 
til we  reached  an  endless  plain  of  night.  I 
could  not  see  you,  yet  I  went  on  until  I  grew 
so  weary  I  could  go  no  farther.  Then  there 
was  a  faint  glimmer  through  the  dark,  it  grew 
brighter  and  brighter — then  dawn !  and  I  held 
you  in  my  arms. 

But  no  dream  like  that  can  atone  for  the 
glory  I  have  missed — of  holding  you.  Did 
you  ever  think,  my  Lady,  that  in  all  these 
years  I  have  never  touched  you  once,  save  to 
take  your  hand  in  greeting  and  farewell  ? 

Once,  I  think,  you  would  not  have  minded. 
You  asked  me  to  play  to  you  and  I  chose  the 
*  *  Cavatina. "  It  was  not  Raff  who  thrilled  you 
that  night — it  was  I.  My  story  was  in  the 
music — all  the  love  and  longing  and  wait- 
ing—and I  thought  you  understood.  Your 
lips  were  parted,  your  eyes  were  shining — 
ah,  Love,  had  I  dared  to  claim  you  at  the 
moment  you  were  mine  ! 


H  /IDuBiclan 


15 


I  want  no  unwilling  surrender.  I  would 
not  lead  you,  queen  as  you  are,  to  a  half- 
hearted slavery,  even  of  the  sweetest  kind. 
Yet,  had  I  dared — but  no  memory  of  your  lips 
could  be  more  real  than  my  dream  of  them. 

Fate  may  deny  me  love,  but  not  loving. 
The  honor  of  it  is  not  yours,  but  mine — I  am 
proud  that  I  am  man  enough  to  love  you. 

Philosophy  avails  little  when  the  heart  cuts 
and  burns  and  stings,  and,  try  as  I  may,  I  can- 
not mask  the  bitter  truth.  Do  you  see  the 
funny  little  spots  all  over  the  page  ?  They  are 
tears — men  have  no  power  to  wring  them 
from  me,  but  you 

Oh,  Sweetheart,  Sweetheart,  Sweetheart ! 
I  will  follow  you  through  fire  and  cloud  if  I 
may  only  dream  again  ! 


R  Dream 


Zl)c  Sea  anb  a  Sbell 

Xatdo 


17 


Adagio     Op.  27.    No.  2. 


Bebthovbn 


^h\.  J.  ; 


^s 


w 


WW 


&M  ^ 


1^ 


24= 


18 


19 


Zbc  Sea  anb  a  Sbell 

BECAUSE  I  wanted  to  be  alone  with  you,  latgo 
I  went  down  to  the  sea  to-day,  cold 
and  bleak  though  it  was,  for  I  could  not  endure 
the  city  any  longer.  Have  you  ever  seen  it 
in  winter  ?  The  two  or  three  who  passed  me 
were  shivering  with  the  cold,  but  1  bared  my 
throat  to  the  keen  salt  wind  and  exulted  in  it. 

There  is  something  in  that  field  of  unresting 
blue  that  always  comforts  me.  It  is  like 
standing  on  the  prairie  at  night  with  no  light 
but  the  stars,  and  hearing  the  wind  make 
melody  through  the  harp-strings  of  the  grass. 

It  seems  as  if  there  should  be  a  tide  on  the 
prairie,  it  is  so  like  the  sea. 

Beside  the  vastness  of  it,  one's  little  self 
shrinks  into  nothingness,  and,  with  it,  one's 
little  troubles.  What  room  is  there  for  a  hu- 
man sorrow  beside  anything  so  great  as  this  ? 
Why,  you  could  take  your  heart  in  the  hollow 
of  your  hand,  it  is  so  little  a  thing,  and  yet 


20 


3Love  ^Letters  of 


Ube  Sea 
and  a 
Sbell 


all  the  trouble  in  the  world  arises  from  it. 
There  is  room  enough  for  all  our  joy,  but  it 
is  neither  wide  enough  nor  deep  enough  to 
hold  our  pain. 

Still,  it  is  only  through  suffering  that  we 
grow,  and  when  we  suffer  enough,  we  are 
great.  When  we  can  express  it,  we  are 
artists,  and  when  we  cannot,  we  are  only 
poor  human  children,  stricken  dumb  with 
grief. 

Do  you  remember  Abelard  and  Heloise? 
He  was  going  to  reach  a  fame  too  great  for 
her  to  share,  and  he  lives  only  through  the 
world's  memory  of  that  wronged  woman's 
love. 

1  have  been  wondering  to-day  if  this  was 
given  me  for  the  sake  of  my  music  or  if  my 
music  was  given  me  for  the  sake  of  this.  In 
the  path  of  every  great  artist  is  an  unfulfilled 
love,  and  yet  I  would  gladly  surrender  my 
claim  to  earthly  immortality  for  a  heavenly 
mortality  with  you. 

How  much  of  the  sonorous  glory  of  Bee- 
thoven belongs  to  Adelaide  ?  I  believe  that  all 
of  it  was  hers,  after  he  began  to  love  her,  just 
as  all  my  music  shall  be  yours.     Love  makes 


J 


H  ilDustclan 


21 


a  tide  in  the  soul — ^the  ebb  is  minor,  the  flow 
major,  and  the  whole  a  symphony. 

But  what  is  the  use  of  it  all !  I  might  cry 
out,  but  no  one  would  hear.  There  is  so  much 
grief  in  the  world  that  the  sound  of  my  voice 
would  be  drowned  and  lost,  as  one  wave  is 
deadened  by  the  majestic  chords  of  surf  that 
crash  superbly  on  the  shore. 

A  storm  was  coming  up  to-day,  and  I 
watched  it,  sweeping  down  on  grey  wings 
from  the  north.  A  single  gull  sped  in  advance 
of  it,  strong,  stately,  and  straight  as  an  arrow, 
to  some  more  kindly  harbour.  There  were  no 
fetters  binding  him  to  earth — he  was  free  to 
sail  through  the  measureless  heaven  or  to 
breast  the  unmeasured  sea.  The  waves  are 
bound — surge  and  toss  as  they  may,  they  be- 
long to  Earth  for  ever  and  ever,  as  until  the 
last  day  of  eternity,  I  belong  to  you,  who  are 
free  as  the  gull. 

There  was  a  tiny  shell  at  my  feet  and  I 
picked  it  up.  By  holding  it  to  my  ear  I  heard 
the  sound  of  the  breakers,  so  divinely  soft  and 
sweet  that  it  seemed  like  a  dream. 

There  was  no  hint  of  storm  in  that  far-off 
melody — only  blue  skies  and  tropic  islands. 


Ube  Sea 

an&  tbe 

0beU 


22 


%ovc  ^Letters  of  H  /IDustcian 


Ube  Sea 

an^  tbe 

Sbell 


sapphire  depths  of  sea,  and  dazzling  reaches 
of  sunlight.  The  little  shell  knew  nothing  of 
the  tempests  that  sweep  the  waters  and  lash 
them  into  foam,  nothing  of  shipwieck  or  loss. 
And  so,  if  I  had  the  appointment  of  it,  your 
life  would  be. 

Love  is  first  a  shield  and  then  an  uplifting, 
and  in  shielding  you  I  should  be  uplifted  my- 
self. There  is  no  degree  in  loving;  you  must 
give  all  or  none,  and  I  have  given  all. 

Dear  Lady  of  my  Heart,  pain  given  by  your 
hand  becomes  the  keenest  joy,  because  you 
have  given  it.  And  since  pain  means  so  much, 
I  dare  not  think  what  joy  would  be. 


JLbc  Blinb  Spinner 

Xardo 


23 


SPINNING  SONG 


Mendelssohn 


24 


25 


XCbe  *Blltib  Spinner 

A  LITTLE  web  is  in  the  corner  of  my  room,       *a»^so 
which  I  have  just  found.     I  have  been 
watching  the  tiny  occupant  as  he  builds  his 
house  around  him,  apparently  without  design 
and  yet  with  the  craftiest  of  intentions. 

No  matter  how  many  times  he  is  driven 
away  or  his  house  destroyed,  he  begins  anew 
with  each  failure  and  outwardly  with  the  same 
cheerfulness.  It  is  not  given  us  to  fathom  his 
mental  process,  but  we  who  have  built  a 
House  of  Dreams,  and  seen  it  shattered  at  a 
single  blow,  can  appreciate  his  feelings  when 
he  begins  anew  upon  other  foundations. 

Within  that  tiny  body  dwells  a  wondrous 
chemistry.  Who  could  trace  the  shimmering, 
shining  web  to  the  crude,  misshapen  thing 
that  forms  it  ?  And  who,  knowing  the  Spin- 
ner, would  not  wish  him  a  fortunate  spin- 
ning? 

I  am  a  spinner  too,  but  my  web  is  Life. 


26 


Xove  %cttcv3  ot 


Ube  3BUn^ 
Spinner 


My  room  is  the  world,  and  in  my  little  corner 
I  make  a  fabric  of  dreams  that  any  breath  may 
blow  aside.  The  threads  are  torn  and  broken 
and  some  are  soiled,  and  sometimes  I  go  up  a 
little  higher  and  begin  again. 

But  I  can  never  relay  my  first  foundations. 
The  guiding  threads  are  fixed  and  eternal  and 
the  new  web  must  always  be  constructed 
upon  the  old  plan.  Ah,  the  thousand  aches 
and  disappointments  that  go  in  with  the 
weaving !  No  mistake  can  be  corrected,  no  loss 
made  good,  after  it  is  once  done.  The  varia- 
tion of  a  hair's  breadth  at  the  beginning  makes 
a  defect  at  the  end,  but  I  work  on,  all  through 
my  little  day,  unseeing,  and  hoping  against 
hope. 

It  is  a  sombre  grey,  this  web  of  Life,  but  it 
becomes  silver  when  the  light  shines  upon  it, 
and  in  the  sun  it  glows  with  rainbow  hues. 
A  broken,  distorted  web  is  beautiful  then,  and 
mine  is  broken  in  many  places,  though  I  have 
spun  as  best  I  may. 

My  love  for  you,  dear  Lady,  is  the  light 
upon  my  web,  and  ill-shapen  and  shattered 
though  it  is,  there  lies  within  its  meshes  a 
human  heart. 


H  /IDusictan 


27 


So  I  pray  that  He,  seeing  what  lies  within 
the  imperfect  tapestry,  may  forgive  the  Blind 
Spinner  for  his  thousand  mistakes,  and  deem 
the  web  not  wholly  unworthy  of  reward,  for 
the  sake  of  the  Light  which  shines  upon  it. 


Spinner 


6oI&cnro&  an&  Snow 

Xardbetto 


29 


ALBUM  LEAF 


s 


^ 


^ 


f  f 


»„'2  =1  S     g 


LiBBLING 


rap    ■      ^   m    ^ 


sS 


^ 


30 


<5oI&ento&  an&  Snow 


31 


TO-DAY,  with  its  keen,  crisp  winter  air, 
has  been  so  like  the  same  day  a  year 
ago,  that  I  have  been  out  to  the  river,  where 
we  went  when  a  childish  fancy  called  you, 
even  in  the  snow. 

You  used  to  say  that  I  was  the  only  one 
you  knew  who  did  not  spoil  the  beauty  of 
the  woods  for  you.  I  longed  to  tell  you  that 
you  made  them  beautiful  for  me,  but  I  dared 
not.  I  have  found  out  that  you  not  only 
bring  beauty  with  you,  but  the  memory  of 
you  carries  with  it  a  subtle  charm  that  makes 
a  frozen  stream  a  silver  ribbon  between  two 
banks  of  pearl. 

1  lived  it  all  over  again  to-day,  walking 
alone  where  once  we  walked  together,  and 
finding  the  same  clumps  of  dead  goldenrod, 
weighted  down  with  snow.  You  might  as 
well  have  been  with  me.  Sweet  Lady  of  my 
Dreams,  for  the  place  was  eloquent  with  your 
presence. 


lardbetto 


32 


%ovc  Xettets  ot 


Snow 


There  seemed  to  be  a  hallowed  path  marked 
out  on  the  ice,  where  your  feet  had  trod  the 
year  before.  The  silence  was  deeper  there, 
as  if  some  holy  thing  had  just  gone  by. 

Last  year  I  spoke  of  the  dead  flowers,  and 
you  said,  "  They  *re  not  dead — ^they  Ve  just 
gone  to  sleep."  Then  you  took  your  hand- 
kerchief and  brushed  the  snow  from  a  tall 
purple  aster,  that  I  might  see  how  tightly  the 
dried  petals  had  closed  round  the  heart  of  the 
flower.  You  knew  it  was  a  purple  aster,  for 
you  know  all  the  wood  things  by  name,  but  I 
could  not  have  found  one  in  the  snow. 

There  were  little  webs  in  the  grass  along 
the  banks,  close  to  the  river,  where  the  snow 
had  not  fallen,  marked  out  with  silver  and  set 
with  stars  of  frost.  And  there  was  no  weed 
that  did  not  have  its  panoply  of  whiteness 
and  its  attendant  train  of  tiny  pages  stumbling 
through  the  snow.  You  found  a  haughty 
burdock,  pompous  in  his  new  majesty,  and 
pointed  out  a  long,  straggling  line  of  train- 
bearers,  grown  sleepy  with  their  task. 

Of  a  sudden,  you  remembered  the  purple 
aster  that  you  had  left  uncovered,  and  we  had 
to  go  back  to  it,  while  you  sifted  snow  over 


H  /iDuBlctan 


33 


it,  with  a  sweet  seriousness  on  your  face.  In 
some  ways,  I  think  you  will  always  be  a 
child.  Dear,  white  little  soul,  I  could  ask  no 
greater  thing  from  God  than  that  He  should 
keep  you  as  you  are. 

I  lingered  by  the  river  until  sunset.  You 
never  know  what  a  sunset  can  be  until  you 
see  it  in  winter,  behind  the  leafless  trees. 
There  were  just  clouds  enough  to  make  it 
beautiful,  and  I  stood  on  the  bluff  above, 
where  we  waited  for  it  so  long  ago. 

Gold  and  purple  and  crimson  and  azure 
changed  to  opal  and  grey,  far  across  a  stretch 
of  snowy  plain.  It  was  as  if  the  Gates  of 
Light  had  opened  out  upon  Earth.  And  at 
the  last,  when  it  seemed  as  if  I  must  turn  to 
see  that  wondrous  glow  reflected  in  your 
face,  something  blinded  my  sight,  and  in  a 
flood  of  molten  glory  which  my  wet  eyes 
could  not  see,  the  sun  went  down. 


Ooldenvod 

and 

Snow 


Zbc  ZTibe  of  tbe  l?ear 

Xargbctto 


35 


Adagio   Op.  S3* 


Bbxtxovxn 


ten,  ten. 


^ 


■^d  1      !  -<      i  111         Li 


-=1 4- 


PP 


s 


3  ^ 


-ii — =»- 


36 


37 


Zhc  ^Ibe  of  tbe  l^ear 

IT  is  late  now,  but  I  cannot  deny  myself  the 
luxury  of  a  talk  with  you.  I  am  wondering 
what  you  would  say  if  you  were  to  see  these 
letters — would  you  think  me  presuming  and 
impertinent,  or  would  you  understand  ? 

I  have  been  reading  to-day,  in  a  little  book 
you  gave  me  long  ago : 

"  God  be  thanked,  the  meanest  of  His  creatures 
Boasts  two  soul-sides— one  to  face  the  world  with, 
One  to  show  a  woman  when  he  loves  her." 

You  will  never  see  the  side  of  my  soul  that 
loves  you.  One  part  of  my  nature  is  reserved 
and  cold,  but  the  other — ah,  my  Heart  I  not 
even  you  can  know  the  warmth  and  tender- 
ness of  that. 

All  the  best  of  me  belongs  to  you.  There 
is  no  talent  nor  aspiration  nor  goodness  in  me 
that  is  not  wholly  yours.  And  of  you,  I  have 
memories  and  the  assurance  of  your  friend- 
ship.    I  am  not  complaining — it  is  enough. 


largbetto 


3^ 


Xopc  Xettere  ot 


of  tbe 


Drip,  drip,  drip — I  can  hear  water  dropping 
on  the  roof.  The  trees  are  giving  up  their 
weight  of  ice,  and  the  bare  boughs  are  turn- 
ing in  their  sleep.     That  means  spring. 

What  a  tide  it  is — ^the  ebb  and  flow  of  the 
year  !  The  summer  recedes,  slowly,  gradu- 
ally, and  leaves  a  little  green,  then  scarlet,  and 
finally  grey.  The  earth  is  cold  and  white — 
summer  is  far  south,  waiting  for  the  sun  to 
summon  her  tide  as  the  moon  calls  the  waters. 

You  can  almost  see  it  when  it  comes  in, 
with  a  rush  and  a  joy  that  bursts  into  pink 
and  white  blossoming.  It  is  a  mating-call — 
robin  and  thrush  and  bluebird  break  into  song 
and  drink  the  new  wine  of  the  year. 

Then  there  is  summer.  The  wheat-fields 
turn  from  green  to  gold,  and  in  the  warm, 
sweet  air  a  thousand  singers  speed  on  shining 
wing  from  field  to  field. 

Then  harvest.  The  tide  is  at  flood  now. 
See  all  the  priceless  things  the  incoming  wave 
has  brought  !  Fruit  and  grain  and  grasses — 
all  these  to  last  until  it  comes  in  again. 

There  is  a  little  moment  of  rest  before  the 
turning,  and  they  call  it  Indian  Summer.  The 
air  is  full  of  the  mist  of  parting— the  sad  sweet- 


H  /IDusictan 


39 


ness  of  it  fills  Earth  with  a  gentle  regret.  No 
hesitancy  marks  its  stately  recessional ;  it  goes 
farther  and  farther  back  upon  the  vast  shore 
of  the  world,  leaving  its  track  bare  and  deso- 
late.    But  we  know  it  will  come  again. 

Is  there  an  ebb  and  flow  in  the  heart,  dear 
Lady  ?  I  think  it  must  always  be  flood-tide 
there.  But  the  heart  is  so  small  it  can  scarcely 
hold  it 

It  has  not  found  you  yet,  and  the  waves  do 
not  know  of  the  white,  sweet  shore  that  waits 
for  their  caressing.  You  are  like  the  sleeping 
Princess,  and  your  Prince  is  tarrying. 

But  when  you  wake,  may  God  make  it  a 
happy  dawn  for  you  and  not  a  night  like 
this ! 


XTbc  TLibC 

Of  tbe 

Wear 


a  2)ream««'Sweetbeart 

BnDante  amotoao 


41 


SERENADE 


SCHUBBKT 


m 


m 


^& 


th'l     ^g  T  g  f  I 


«8    F    1  F 


i 


JL—9^ 


Fit- 


^ 


m 


t-*-4 


F   f  F 


42 


43 


H  Dreant'^'Svoeetbeart 

BECAUSE  it  is  Sunday,  I  have  been  playing  mn&antc 
the  things  you  like  best  and  fancying  amoroso 
you  were  here  to  listen.  Your  fingers  were 
finding  a  dream  accompaniment  on  a  wholly 
imaginary  piano,  and  we  were  so  happy  ! 

We  had  tea  together  to-night,  you  and  I. 
Instead  of  going  out,  I  set  my  little  table  for 
two  and  drew  a  chair  for  you  opposite  mine. 
You  would  laugh  at  my  housekeeping,  but  I 
did  the  best  I  could  for  my  guest.  There  were 
none  of  the  dainty  little  touches  that  women 
give — I  fear  even  the  most  careless  observer 
would  know  that  a  man  had  laid  the  table. 

But  you  did  not  mind,  dear  Dream-Sweet- 
heart, so  why  should  1?  We  laughed  and 
talked  and  your  eyes  danced  with  fun.  The 
firelight  was  shining  on  your  face  and  touching 
your  hair  with  gold. 

You  wanted  to  help  afterward,  but  I  en- 
throned you  in  my  easy-chair  and  bade  you  sit 


44 


%ox>c  Xetters  ot 


B  Breams 

Svoeeta 

beart 


Still.  I  got  my  violin  and  tuned  it  down, 
because  your  piano  is  a  little  below  concert 
pitch,  and  then  we  began.  I  played  the 
"Hungarian  Dances"  because  you  like  the 
swing  and  dash  and  color — ^you  are  a  barbarian 
in  some  ways,  dear — and  then  the  softer, 
sweeter  things. 

Muting  the  strings,  I  played  the  **  Legende  " 
for  you.  I  remember  you  said  once  that  a 
muted  violin  sounded  like  a  lover's  voice  and 
I  wanted  to  tell  you  that  it  sounded  as  a 
lover  felt. 

When  we  played  the  *'  Serenade,"  I  could 
see  your  white  fingers  on  the  keys.  You 
seemed  tired  when  we  finished  it,  so  we  went 
over  to  the  fire  and  sat  down. 

And  then,  just  as  I  drew  my  chair  up  beside 
yours,  I  lost  you  !  I  could  see  you  nowhere, 
and  I  looked  around  ruefully.  In  the  midst  of 
my  despair,  I  saw  you  laughing  at  me  from 
the  fire.  Little,  mischievous  sprite,  how  elu- 
sive you  are  ! 

There  is  a  slender  shaft  of  pussy  willow  in  a 
bottle  of  water  on  my  table.  Last  spring  you 
picked  it  and  laughingly  gave  it  to  me  to  keep. 
I  planted  it,  and  during  the  summer  it  grew 


H  /iDustctan 


45 


into  quite  a  tree.  I  brought  a  branch  of  it  to  my 
room  a  week  ago,  and  to-night  the  tiny  grey 
pussies  have  peeped  out  of  their  brown  cover- 
lids. I  don't  wonder  they  call  them  pussy 
willows — ^they  look  like  little  Maltese  paws 
when  the  claws  are  softly  sheathed.  I  have 
deceived  them  shamefully  with  my  fire,  and 
they  think  it  is  spring. 

The  delicate,  wholesome  fragrance  which 
clings  to  them  makes  me  think  of  you,  as 
what  beautiful  thing  does  not?  I  close  my 
eyes  and  put  my  face  down  to  them,  and 
behold !  it  is  spring,  and  I  am  standing  in 
the  woods  with  you.  It  is  a  kindlier  power 
than  Aladdin's  lamp,  for  his  talisman  brought 
him  nothing  but  gold,  while  mine,  with 
unfailing  tenderness,  brings  me  the  vision  of 
you. 


H  S)ream<i 

Sweets 

beart 


£a0ter 

%AXQO 


47 


INTERMEZZO 


Mascagnx 


r 


raseggiando. 


^=^ 


48 


49 


SUNDAY  again,  and  I  went  to  church  this  nargo 
morning.  For  the  simple  reason,  my 
Lady,  that  I  was  to  help  with  the  Easter 
music.  Organ,  harp,  and  violin  played  the 
Intermezzo  and  other  things  beautiful  and  ap- 
propriate, and  I  played  the  obligato  for  the 
contralto  solo. 

I  never  knew  before  what  the  Easter  festival 
meant.  I  had  thought  it  a  time  for  fashion 
and  show,  but  I  passed  by  that  this  morning 
and  grasped  a  deeper  significance.  I  wish 
you  could  have  seen  the  church,  for  vines 
swung  and  flowers  bloomed  everywhere. 
The  chancel  was  a  mass  of  Easter  lilies,  as 
sweet  and  as  spotless  as  you. 

The  organ  and  the  stained-glass  windows, 
the  vested  choir  and  the  lilies,  appealed  to  me 
strongly.  The  bishop  stood  among  the  flow- 
ers with  hands  outstretched  in  blessing,  and  a 
shaft  of  golden  light  from  the  window  struck 


50  %ovc  ^Letters  of 

Easter  f^n  ^p^j^  j^j^  f^^^^  j^  ^^^  ^  moment  of  con- 
secration, of  uplifting,  of  resurrection. 

For  my  own  part,  the  violin  played  of  it- 
self— I  seemed  to  have  no  control  whatever  of 
the  strings.  Mascagni  will  never  be  forgotten 
because  of  his  Intermezzo,  and  I  know  it  so 
well  I  could  play  it  with  my  eyes  shut. 

And  as  I  played,  a  weight  seemed  lifted 
from  my  heart.  The  dull,  dead  pain  that  set- 
tled down  upon  me  when  I  lost  you  for  all 
time,  was  mercifully  eased.  It  seemed  as  if 
you  must  be  in  the  church,  but  I  knew  you 
were  not,  for  there  was  no  face  there  so 
flower-like  and  dear  as  yours. 

I  half  expected  it  would  come  again,  but  it 
has  not.  There  is  a  reaction  after  every  pain 
— a  sort  of  blessed  calm  that  is  almost  Para- 
dise.    I  felt  my  littleness,  my  selfishness. 

We  consider  things  so  wholly  from  our  own 
point  of  view  !  My  heart  ached  bitterly  be- 
cause I  could  not  have  you,  and  now  it  sings 
because  I  know  you  and  love  you. 

Why,  dear  Lady,  think  of  the  countless 
people  who  have  never  seen  you  and  never 
will !  And  I,  blessed  above  my  fellows^  have 
been  your  friend  and  you  are  still  mine.    More 


H  /fDusictan 


51 


than  this,  there  is  no  other  to  whom  you  are 
as  dear  and  close  as  you  are  to  me.  I  do  not 
believe  that  any  other  man  sees  you  in  every 
flower  and  hears  you  in  all  the  music  that 
sings  inside  and  outside  his  heart.  And  no 
one  else  writes  to  you  as  I  do  and  directs  and 
stamps  the  letters,  and  posts  them — in  his 
trunk.  You  are  not  lost  —  my  loving  you 
makes  you  mine. 

Something  of  this  came  to  me  then  and  I 
have  analysed  it  since.  I  do  not  know  where 
it  came  from,  whether  in  the  beam  of  light 
that  came  through  the  window,  in  the  heart 
of  some  one  of  those  lilies  that  made  me  think 
of  you,  or  on  the  soft  wings  of  the  Intermezzo, 
but  it  came,  and  I  know  now  what  resurrec- 
tion may  mean,  for  there  is  an  Easter  in  my 
soul. 


SaBtec 


Burie^  flDu6lc 

Xargo 


53 


LEGENDE 


WlBNIAWSKI 


^^ 


r  ft* 


f 


54 


55 


Burieb  flDuelc 

THERE  is  a  sweetness  in  the  air  to-day,  and  largo 
I  have  opened  my  window.  It  blew  in 
upon  me  while  I  worked  and  is  moving  the 
paper  to-night,  while  I  write  to  you.  I  am 
going  to  the  country  soon,  and  three  days  in 
the  week  I  shall  come  in  to  my  studio,  but  the 
rest  of  the  time  I  shall  wander  through  the 
fields  and  woods,  compose  a  little,  and  think 
much  more  of  you. 

Adelaide  means  very  little  to  us,  who  have 
the  music  of  Beethoven,  but  ah,  how  much 
she  meant  to  him  !  More,  perhaps,  than  his 
music  means  to  us.  I  am  wondering  if  I  shall 
ever  compose  anything  that  shall  mean  as 
much  to  the  world  as  you  do  to  me.  If  I  do 
— ^but  no;  neither  opera  nor  symphony  could 
be  great  enough  to  hold  that. 

My  work  is  neglected  to-night.  I  should 
be  preparing  for  a  concert  next  week  and 
writing  out  an  obligato  to  a  song  that  has 


56  OLove  betters  ot 

3Bur{e&  been  sent  to  me,  and  see  what  I  am  doing 
iiDufiic      instead! 

It  seems  strange  to  think  that  my  violin  was 
once  a  tree,  but  1  do  not  know  what  else 
could  have  caught  the  music  that  lies  within 
it,  waiting  for  the  touch.  It  must  be  centuries 
old,  and  through  all  those  years  it  was  listening 
and  learning,  weaving  in  with  its  growth 
the  forest  melodies  to  sing  to  generations  yet 
unborn. 

Wind  and  wave  and  song  of  bird,  crash  of 
thunder,  drip  of  rain,  and  mating-call — all  these 
are  in  the  fibre  of  my  violin.  And  the  thou- 
sand notes  of  sea  and  storm,  the  music  of  the 
waterfall  and  stream — what  wonder  that  it  is 
so  nearly  the  human  voice  I  There  must 
have  been  a  love  story  in  that  forest,  for  it 
sings  love,  love,  and  only  love,  though  I  do 
not  remember  of  hearing  it  until  I  knew  you. 

Perhaps  you  have  taught  it  a  new  melody 
— stranger  things  have  happened — ^and  it  has 
learned  your  lesson  best. 

All  the  rest  of  its  days  it  shall  sing  your 
song  and  perhaps  some  heart  may  learn  its 
comforting.  I  am  happy  to-night,  happier 
than  I  have  ever  been  in  my  life,  for  the  pain 


H  /lDu5ictan  57 


has  not  come  back  and  I  have  only  the  joy  of       »arfe5 
my  loving  without  its  grief.  ^^^^ 

Perhaps  it  is  the  swiftly  coming  spring,  for 
all  the  world  is  new,  and  why  should  not 
hearts  beat  stronger  now  ?  There  is  no  out- 
ward sign  of  it  yet,  except  tiny  tips  of  green 
that  are  hardly  more  than  a  promise,  but  I 
know,  for  this  morning,  just  at  dawn,  I  saw 
a  flock  of  wild  geese  making  their  way  north- 
ward through  the  cold  grey  of  the  sky. 

What  faith  must  carry  them  onward  !  I 
watched  them  as  long  as  I  could  see,  flying  in 
their  straight,  precise  lines,  and  as  I  looked, 
the  leader  grew  tired  of  breasting  the  cold 
wind  for  the  rest  and  dropped  back,  while, 
without  pausing,  another  took  his  place. 

I  mean  no  more  to  the  world  than  any  one 
of  that  steady,  patient  flock,  and  yet  if  I  do 
not  falter,  some  single  heart  may  look  up,  in 
simple  reverence,  to  my  faith  and  unfaltering. 


PART  TWO 


59 


6i 


SPRING  SONG 


Mendelssohn 


'J  ^t^  ** 


rg=^ 


:# 


^ 


62 


6.3 


MY  first  day  in  the  country  has  been  BUegto 
that  blending  of  sun  and  cloud  which 
unfailingly  marks  the  caprice  and  tenderness 
of  April.  The  morning  began  beautifully,  but 
in  an  hour  the  sky  was  grey  and  cheerless, 
and  then  we  had  a  shower.  It  beat  upon  the 
windows  like  some  mischievous  sprite  mak- 
ing a  holiday,  and  I  could  almost  see  the  little 
genius  of  the  rain  as  I  sat  watching  it. 

Long  silver  shafts  of  water  seemed  almost 
to  pierce  the  panes,  and  the  swirl  of  it  took 
form  and  became  a  teasing  fairy,  weaving  a 
misty  spell.  I  could  see  her  at  the  window, 
in  a  robe  that  changed  from  grey  to  silver, 
sending  arrows  of  rain  from  a  cloudy  quiver 
and  laughing  at  me  through  the  shimmering 
veil  of  her  hair.  The  sun  came  out  and  the 
rain  sprite  flew  away,  doubtless  to  make 
mischief  elsewhere. 

Outside,  every  single  sceptre  of  grass  had 


64 


%ovc  Xetters  ot 


its  diamond  drop  at  the  end  of  it.  The  leaves 
were  turning  happy  faces  toward  the  sun,  and 
the  air  was  sweet  with  the  freshness  which 
comes  only  when  wilful  April  asks  pardon 
for  her  petulance. 

All  day  the  sky  has  been  undecided  between 
sun  and  shadow.  Sometimes  it  has  been  grey 
and  foreboding,  then  almost  instantly  bright 
again.  Is  there  any  blue,  I  wonder,  like  that 
of  an  April  sky  ? 

This  afternoon,  out  of  a  seemingly  pleasant 
heaven,  we  had  another  shower — a  burst  of 
tears  with  smiles  in  it.  Lady  April  was  laugh- 
ing in  spite  of  her  weeping,  for  the  sun  was 
shining  all  through  the  rain. 

I  stood  on  the  steps  of  my  little  house  and 
watched  it,  for  who  would  go  indoors  when 
the  sun  was  shining !  The  drops  of  rain 
rushed  sparkling  through  the  air,  and  through 
every  one  of  them  shot  a  javelin  of  light. 
There  were  rainbows  everywhere — hanging 
from  the  trees  like  some  elfin  drapery,  poised 
in  the  air  like  a  bird  on  the  wing,  and  lying  on 
the  grass  like  children  tired  of  their  play. 

The  shower  ceased  and  a  pair  of  flame- 
coloured  wings  came  down  from  unknown 


H  /IDustctan 


65 


heights  with  a  dazzling  swiftness.  His  Maj- 
esty, Sir  Oriole,  perched  on  the  topmost  point 
of  my  tallest  evergreen  and  opened  his  golden 
throat  in  such  a  flood  of  song  that  I  no  longer 
wondered  where  Mendelssohn  learned  his 
melody  of  the  spring.  He  was  alive  with  the 
joy  of  living  and  sang  because  he  must.  He 
plumed  his  breast  for  a  final  cadenza,  and  while 
he  was  quivering  with  the  ecstasy  of  it,  the 
faithless  evergreen  bough  tottered  and  broke. 
With  a  disappointed  little  chirp  at  the  inter- 
ruption, my  sunset  singer  flew  off  to  some 
kindlier  foothold. 

I  have  been  thinking  since  that  Sir  Oriole 
must  be  in  love,  for  nothing  else  could  fill  him 
with  the  rapture  that  was  his.  May  he  have 
a  prosperous  wooing  I 

Spring  is  a  hint,  a  suggestion  of  the  summer 
that  is  to  come.  Since  the  shades  were  drawn 
and  the  lamps  lighted,  I  have  been  playing  the 
Spring  Song  and  trying  to  catch  the  beauty 
there  is  in  it.  It  is  almost  too  delicate  for 
anything  but  a  violin,  unless  some  silver  flute 
could  capture  the  ripple  and  rush  of  it. 

In  moods  like  this,  I  am  on  the  verge  of 
composition,  but  I  cannot  write  what  I  feel, 


Bprirs 


66 


Xox^e  ^Letters  of  H  ilDuslctan 


Hprtrs 


save  in  these  letters  to  you.    Two  little  lines 
have  been  singing  themselves  over  all  day  : 

If  you  were  April's  Lady, 
And  I  were  Lord  of  May. 

That  is  just  what  you  are,  my  Heart, 
"April's  Lady."  You  are  as  sunny  and 
capricious  as  to-day  has  been,  with  your 
gleams  of  tenderness  and  your  playful  pouting, 
your  laughing,  childish  cruelty,  and  your  rain- 
bow moods.  Long  as  I  have  known  you,  I 
find  you  as  far  from  me  as  ever.  Some  men 
boast  that  they  know  women,  but  I  have 
never  heard  anyone  make  claim  to  knowing 
you. 

In  April  there  is  a  hint  of  the  heart  of  sum- 
mer and  I  am  wondering  if  some  fortunate 
June  may  find  a  heart  in  you.  I  almost  hope 
that  he  may  not,  for  I  want  no  thorns  show- 
ing themselves  among  your  roses. 

But  since  I  have  not  the  summer,  I  am 
thankful  for  the  spring,  and  like  some  thirsty 
sparrow,  exulting  in  an  April  shower,  I  can 
look  up  through  the  rain  and  be  glad. 


BUesro  vivace 


67 


THE  ROBIN 


MacDowell 


^ 


:J5=3 


1 


:=tz: 


Tlie    rob  •  in  sings    in    the     ap  •  pie   tree, 


68 


69 


I 


H  flDatittd^Call 


FOUND  the  first  violet  to-day,  half  hidden     micgto 
under  the  leaves  of  autumn,  v^et  with  yes- 


terday's rain.  It  was  such  a  pale,  timid,  shiv- 
ering thing  !  I  covered  it  up  with  some  dry 
leaves,  and  I  hope  it  may  be  content  to  wait  a 
little  while  longer  before  blossoming  again. 

These  first  impatient  violets  make  me  think 
of  children  and  their  Christmas  stockings. 
After  lying  awake  most  of  the  night,  listening 
for  the  bells  of  the  reindeer,  they  creep  out 
while  it  is  still  dark  to  claim  their  treasures. 
They  find  queer,  knobby  packages,  but  cannot 
tell  their  contents  until  daylight,  and  lie  there, 
eating  candy  and  watching  with  strained  ex- 
pectancy for  the  first  gleam  of  dawn  through 
the  shutter. 

The  foolish  little  flowers  know  that  spring 
is  coming,  but  they  are  not  content  to  wait 
until  they  feel  the  warmth  through  their 
brown  coverlids.     They  must  needs  put  out 


70 


%ovc  ^Letters  of 


m 

Call 


their  curious  heads  as  soon  as  they  wake,  and 
instead  of  the  beautiful  spring  of  which  they 
have  heard  so  much,  they  find  a  cold,  bare 
world,  which  treats  them  unkindly,  and  die, 
firmly  believing  that  old  Mother  Nature  has 
told  them  an  untruth. 

I  have  been  watching  a  courtship  to-day  in  the 
boughs  of  the  apple  tree  just  outside  my  win- 
dow. Master  Robin  has  been  so  absorbed  in 
his  wooing  that  he  had  no  time  to  notice  me. 
The  lady  of  his  choice  sat  on  the  branch  above 
him,  fully  aware  of  my  presence,  for  it  is  al- 
ways the  woman  who  has  a  care  for  outsiders. 

She  has  been  cold  and  aloof;  apparently  his 
pleadings  and  protestations  have  not  con- 
cerned her  in  the  least,  but  I  could  see  the 
twinkle  in  her  eyes  when  she  turned  her 
head  away  from  him. 

Her  Robin  has  proved  himself  a  valiant 
lover,  for  he  has  been  under  her  leafy  case- 
ment this  entire  day,  saving  short  intervals 
for  refreshment.  Once,  seeing  that  she  had 
no  respect  for  words,  he  determined  to  win 
her  with  gifts,  and  flew  away,  without  a 
word  of  farewell,  in  search  of  some  bid  for 
her  favour. 


H  /IDustctan 


71 


My  Lady  Robin  was  plainly  nervous  and 
unhappy  when  he  left  her,  yet  she  was  too 
proud  to  let  me  see  her  agitation.  She 
glanced  around  unconcernedly,  and  plumed 
herself  with  an  air  of  aristocratic  indifference. 
Jt  takes  birds  and  women  a  long  time  to  learn 
that  the  true  lover  will  always  come  back. 

When  he  returned  with  a  fat  worm  in  his 
beak,  she  started  with  joy,  but  was  too  wary 
to  let  him  see  her  pleasure,  and  proudly 
disdained  the  proffered  worm.  After  vain 
pleading,  he  ate  it  himself  with  evident  sat- 
isfaction, and  settled  down  to  go  over  the 
argument  again. 

Such  chirping  and  twittering  and  singing  I 
He  was  plainly  describing  the  kind  of  house 
he  intended  to  build  for  her,  for  she  turned  a 
scornful  look  on  him  as  he  hopped  from 
bough  to  bough,  evidently  illustrating  the 
ground  plan  of  it. 

Then,  throwing  aside  worldly  considera- 
tions, he  sang  the  old  love-song,  the  first  the 
world  heard,  and  the  last  it  will  hear,  filling 
it  with  such  an  indescribable  wealth  of  feel- 
ing that  his  love's  eyes  shone  with  happy 
pride.     I  could  see  that  she  was  won,  but  her 


B 
Call 


72  %ot>e  betters  of  H  /IDusician 


»  blind  adorer  puffed  out  his  scarlet  breast  and 
^J^^  sang  witli  such  passionate  beauty  that  she 
could  not  say  a  word.  At  last,  just  at  sun- 
set, she  went  over  to  him,  with  a  shy,  co- 
quettish twist  of  her  head,. a  sparkle  in  her 
eyes,  and  a  single,  half-whispered  chirp  that 
I  could  understand  as  well  as  he.  I  shall 
never  forget  the  exultant  poise  of  wing  with 
which  he  soared  aloft,  with  her  beside  him. 
Wing  and  wing  together,  they  sailed  west- 
ward toward  the  sunset,  until  they  were  lost 
in  the  crimson  glow. 

Seeing  all  the  world  making  a  wedding- 
day,  do  you  wonder  at  my  loneliness  ?  Ah, 
Sweetheart,  if  song  could  win  a  woman,  I 
would  take  my  stand  under  your  window 
with  my  violin,  and  play  until  your  heart 
turned  to  mine. 

But  I  would  want  no  heavenly  flight,  even 
toward  the  gold  of  sunset,  for  this  earth  is 
heaven  enough  when  the  light  of  love  shines 
upon  it,  and  rather  than  wing  and  wing 
through  the  sweet,  cool  air,  I  would  go  down 
leafy  lanes  blossoming  with  violets,  hand  in 
hand  with  you. 


Zl)c  Dawn  of  fIDai? 


Bndante 


73 


NARCISSUS 


NBvm 


^ 


m 


qsS* 


^ 


74 


Zbc  ©awn  of  (Siwi 


75 


TO-DAY  I  have  had  a  long  walk  through 
the  woods  and  fields.  The  Earth  has 
thrown  off  her  lethargy  and  waked  into  liv- 
ing. Everything  is  budded  now,  and  soon 
will  come  the  time  of  blossoming. 

The  hepaticas  and  windflowers,  rash  child- 
ren of  the  woods  that  they  are,  have  already 
made  little  pink  and  white  spots  of  beauty 
among  the  brown,  dead  leaves.  There  is  a 
tender  flush  on  Nature's  withered  face,  that 
means  rebirth  and  resurrection. 

On  the  southern  slope  of  a  hill  I  found  a 
yellow  violet.  There  seems  to  be  a  passion 
this  year  for  early  rising.  The  trilliums,  brave 
and  bonny  in  their  new  attire,  are  too  proud 
to  speak  to  the  passer-by.  I  bent  down  to 
one  of  them,  but  not  a  glance  could  I  get. 

Jack-in-the-Pulpit  was  turning  tender  eyes 
that  way.  He  stood,  well-dressed  and 
haughty,  close  beside  Mistress  Trillium,  who 
leaned  towards  him  with  an  air  of  delicate 


Bndante 


76 


%ovc  aiettets  of 


Ube 

H)awn 

of  Oiws 


encouragement.  Perhaps  that  is  why  she 
had  no  indination  to  look  at  me. 

The  plain  of  woods  just  east  of  the  maple 
grove  seems  like  a  vast  festival.  The  guests 
are  brilliant  and  stately,  only  moving  aside 
gracefully  when  some  gay  wind  goes  by. 
The  hepaticas  are  gowned  in  white  just 
touched  with  a  delicate  pink,  the  windflowers 
are  clothed  with  a  warmer  shade,  and  the 
violets,  in  their  ever  varying  purple,  almost 
monopolise  the  field. 

The  air  is  full  of  meaning.  One  feels  that 
something  great  is  about  to  happen,  whether 
it  be  some  ceremonial  procession,  in  which  all 
the  guests  are  to  join,  swinging  their  perfumed 
censers  and  chanting  the  ever  joyous  hymn  of 
spring,  or  whether  some  sweet  fairy  sym- 
phony is  to  be  played  on  hidden  strings,  too 
far  off  and  faint  for  our  human  ears  to  hear. 

I  think  they  miss  you,  Sweetheart,  unless 
your  passing  this  way  once  is  joy  enough  for 
one  field.  You  have  been  beside  me  all  day, 
singing  softly  to  yourself  as  you  have  always 
done  in  the  woods,  and  every  now  and  then 
turning  your  face,  fairer  and  sweeter  than 
any  flower  that  grows,  up  to  mine. 


H  iflDuslctan  77 


There  are  no  depths  in  any  stream  like  the       ^^e 


brown,  soft  tenderness  of  your  eyes,  no  mel- 
ody in  wind  or  wave  like  the  ever-changing 
music  of  your  voice,  and  no  sweetness  in  all 
the  world  is  like  that  within  the  scarlet  chalice 
of  your  lips. 

I  wonder  what  the  flowers  do  when  the 
stars  come  out !  Do  they  wait,  half-shyly 
half-fearfully,  for  the  dawn  ?  Perhaps  they 
cuddle  down  closer  among  their  leaves  and 
listen  to  the  slumbrous  voices  of  the  night. 

I  open  my  window  a  tiny  crack  when  the 
spring  nights  come,  and  put  my  violin  against 
the  casement,  and  listen.  The  delicate  fingers 
of  May  pick  out  melodies  upon  those  strings, 
such  as  Mozart  never  sang.  Faint,  far-off, 
and  tender,  like  some  half-hushed  lullaby,  I 
have  heard  a  dream-song  to-night  that  the 
wind  never  played  before. 

I  have  taken  my  violin  away  now  and 
opened  the  window  wide.  And  then,  be- 
cause I  know  it  will  never  reach  you  and  be- 
cause it  comforts  my  heart  to  give  it,  I  send 
a  kiss  across  the  sleeping  world  to  where  my 
Lady  sleeps. 


Dawn 
ot  tain's 


^be  Srumpeter0 


Xatdbetto 


79 


Largo    Op.  95 


DvorXk 


I 


*•  S  J 


■J    I   -! 

— I    td-. H- 


^^ 


5  J     I   4:*^^ 


80 


Zbc  tTrumpetera 


8i 


THE  East  Wind  brought  a  sweet,  far-off 
odour  to-day,  and  I  started  out  in  search 
of  it.     I  knew  what  it  was — ^the  wild  phlox. 

I  found  it  in  a  little  hollow  near  the  river,  a 
whole  plain  of  it,  filling  the  air  with  that  sub- 
tle fragrance  that  no  one  ever  forgets.  The 
yellow  buttercups  had  a  part  of  the  place  to 
themselves,  making  a  wilderness  of  gold  and 
blue.  I  sat  down  among  them,  where  I  could 
see  the  river  and  the  sky. 

What  a  stately  trumpeter  the  wild  phlox  is! 
There  was  a  single  shaft  of  it  near  me,  rugged 
and  yet  graceful,  gay  with  its  martial  blue.  It 
stood  straight  as  a  soldier  might,  with  his 
long  blue  trumpet  to  his  lips,  marshalling  the 
fields  in  proud  array  with  his  triumphant  bu- 
gle-call. What  army  does  he  lead?  What 
elfin  music  does  he  play  ?  All  the  little  people 
of  the  forest  know,  but  we  cannot  hear  and 
they  cannot  tell. 


Hargbetto 


82 


%ovc  betters  of 


Ube 

Xitump» 

eters 


And  yet  they  follow  him.  The  hepaticas 
and  violets  are  his  advance-guard  and  the 
army  comes  behind.  Rows  upon  rows  of 
buttercups,  flaunting  the  cavalry  yellow,  ride 
in  his  train,  and  then  come  tired  troops  of 
humbler  soldiers,  caring  little  for  trumpet  and 
drum,  and  following  as  best  they  may. 

The  passing  of  the  army  leaves  desolation 
behind.  Some  soldiers  die  on  the  way,  and 
the  rest  go  on,  as  the  children  followed  the 
Pied  Piper  into  the  mountain  side.  We  may 
call  and  call,  but  they  never  come  back,  and 
the  next  year  the  Blue  Trumpeter  calls  again, 
and  the  flower  soldiers,  with  never  a  sigh, 
join  the  vanishing  train. 

We  cannot  hear  the  martial  music  to  which 
their  feet  keep  time  ;  we  have  no  hint  of  the 
far-off  land  to  which  their  troops  go  forth. 
They  never  return,  and  each  year  another 
army  springs  up,  only  to  be  led  away. 

Perhaps  they  journey  to  some  distant  bourne 
where  it  is  always  spring,  to  some  country 
whose  margin  the  snows  of  winter  never 
reach,  and  where  the  icy  blasts  are  mellowed 
to  a  gentle  summer  wind. 

There  must  be  some  place  for  human  hearts 


H  jflDusician 


83 


in  a  land  like  that,  some  balm  for  human  pain. 
We  follow  the  White  Trumpeter  less  willingly, 
for  we  know  not  of  the  country  to  which 
he  leads  us,  and  have  no  vision  of  those 
who  dwell  therein.  But  if  the  violets  and 
buttercups  go  first,  should  we  not  be  glad  to 
follow  ? 

Some  day  the  White  Trumpeter  will  sum- 
mon me  from  sleep  and  I  shall  go  willingly. 
But  I  shall  beg  him,  ere  I  depart,  to  touch 
your  eyelids  too,  not  that  I  may  see  you  and 
speak  to  you,  but  because  no  land  could  be 
dark  or  dreary  where  you  should  bide. 

There  is  no  return  from  that  far-off  country, 
so  I  would  not  have  you  led  thither  till  you 
were  aweary  of  this  ;  but  no  cloud  of  sorrow 
could  reach  me  there  if  I  knew  you  were  one 
day  coming,  for  you  would  glorify  a  desert 
place  for  me,  even  if  I  might  only  look  upon 
the  paths  where  once  your  feet  had  trod. 


Urumix 
eters 


Qnmct  on  tbe  fftarab 

BDagfo  appassionato 


BS 


SONG  OF  THE  RUSHES 


Seeling 


-T         C  10    »      -g-L-,y- 


--e^ 


^^m 


jts-_fci_:l?i- 


— * — I        I        I — 


-Pt^ 


z^^ 


r — ^—^ 


3^-=^ 


±nz;ir-r^ 


:f-  -far   tr"   r^ 

-^8 i -P 1 


-V- 


i:;i;t^ 


se 


Suneet  on  tbe  fiftareb 


87 


THE  marsh  is  gay  with  blue  flags  that 
stream  in  every  wind.  I  have  been 
down  to  the  bank  of  it,  watching  the  birds 
skim  lightly  over  its  surface  and  looking 
through  the  tall  grasses  to  the  opposite  edge 
of  it. 

It  is  so  still  down  there  ! .  Nothing  but  the 
nodding,  sleepy  sway  of  the  grasses  and 
the  cry  of  the  bobolink,  the  turquoise-blue 
sky  overhead,  and  the  wide  stretch  of  plain. 

I  got  my  little  boat  and  pushed  out  into  the 
tiny  stream  that  runs  into  the  marsh.  There 
was  scarcely  water  enough  to  float  it,  and  the 
grasses  reached  almost  to  my  head.  One 
might  so  easily  be  lost  there  ! 

Sitting  among  them,  with  the  yellow  marsh 
lilies  and  the  tall  iris  so  near  that  I  could  al- 
most reach  them,  I  began  to  think  of  you. 
There  is  nothing,  since  the  day  I  saw  you 
first,  that  is  not  embalmed  in  the  amber  of  my 
memory.     Not  a  mood  of  yours  is  lost. 


appassions 
ato 


88  %ovc  Xetters  of 

Sunset  You  had  no  idea,  my  Lady,  of  the  watch 
on  tbe  that  was  kept  over  you,  and  I  do  not  think 
you  can  know  now.  There  is  no  recollec- 
tion like  that  of  loving,  for  love  itself  is 
recollection,  and  in  loving  one  loves  all  the 
thousand  memories  that  store  themselves 
away. 

1  have  wondered  vainly  many  times  why  1 
love  you  and  tried  to  pick  out  this  quality  and 
that  for  my  especial  regard.  This  afternoon, 
in  the  marsh,  I  found  out.  It  is  your  crystal- 
line, exquisite  honour. 

The  purity  of  most  women  is  negative; 
they  are  clean  because  they  are  not  otherwise. 
Yours  is  positive — ^you  are  white  because  God 
made  you  so,  and  mingled  with  this  is  a  holy 
joy  in  your  whiteness.  I  felt,  the  first  time  I 
saw  you,  as  if  I  should  stand  in  your  presence 
with  uncovered  head,  and  I  never  knew  why 
until  this  afternoon. 

How  long  I  sat  there  I  shall  never  know, 
but  1  awoke  with  a  start,  and  looking  over 
the  field  of  blue  flags,  saw  the  sunset. 

It  was  a  divine  moment  and  I  felt  as  Sidney 
Lanier  must  have  felt  when  he  wrote,  in  his 
Sunrise  on  the  Marshes : 


H  /D^ustctan 


Oh,  what  if  a  sound  should  be  made  I 
Oh,  what  if  a  hand  should  be  laid 

On  this   bow-  and  string-tension  of  beauty  and  silence 
a-spring,— 

The  tall,  nodding  plumes  of  grass  and  iris 
were  touched  with  an  exquisite  light  ;  the 
circling  swallows  were  hovering  on  silent, 
expectant  wing,  and  the  pools  of  water  were 
blood-red.  I  began  to  push  out,  keeping  my 
face  fixed  upon  the  western  sky,  and  the 
splash  of  the  paddle  in  the  water  seemed 
almost  too  much  to  be  borne. 

I  stopped  at  the  entrance  to  the  little  river 
and  my  boat  swung  out  into  that  sunset 
glow.  The  air  was  opalescent  and  shimmer- 
ing, and  with  a  sudden  flash  of  light  the 
pools  became  gold  where  they  had  been  blood- 
red.  There  was  a  burst  of  flame  that  would 
be  music  to  finer  ears  than  ours,  and  then  the 
marsh  trembled  into  shadow,  then  into  twi- 
light, and  finally  dark. 


Sunset 
on  tbe 
Obavsb 


^be  Xo0t  patb 

BnDantc  amoroso 


91 


TRAUMEREI 


Schumann 


m 


^ 


^-i- .'^  w  *< 


^^ 


92 


Zhc  %0Bt  patb 


93 


LAST  night,  while  all  the  world  slumbered 
and  slept,  there  was  a  miracle.  It  had 
been  going  on  for  months,  silently,  in  tiny 
hidden  chambers,  and  this  morning  saw  the 
fulfilment. 

My  Lady,  this  part  of  the  earth  is  radiant 
with  pink  and  white  blossoming.  The  boughs 
of  the  trees  seem  to  bend  beneath  their  weight 
of  fragrant  snow.  And  there  is  not  one  blos- 
som among  them  worthy  to  be  compared 
with  your  face. 

What  a  strange  chemistry  goes  on  within 
those  dark,  winding  passages  !  There  must  be 
a  mighty  quiver  of  life  in  that  mysterious 
labyrinth  to  break  forth  into  such  beauty  as 
this. 

To-night  the  South  Wind,  warm  and  sweet, 
is  blowing  through  the  fields.  It  comes 
through  my  open  door  and  carries  with  it  the 
breath  of  the  orchard. 


Bnbante 
amocoso 


94 


%ovc  Xetters  ot 


Ube 
lost  fl>atb 


The  Wind  is  a  gay  gallant  and  more  fickle 
than  either  man  or  woman  has  dared  to  be. 
It  has  ruffled  the  surface  of  a  thousand  streams 
and  then  gone  on.  All  the  time  it  croons  that 
soft,  low,  dreamy  song  that  startles  the  flow- 
ers and  thrills  the  plains  with  joy. 

Over  fields  of  daisies  it  has  come,  laughing 
and  singing,  and  setting  every  bluebell  in  the 
south  to  ringing  merrily.  Now  it  has  left  the 
apple  blossoms  in  mourning,  and  is  moving 
my  paper  as  I  write,  and,  yes,  singing  to  me 
of  you. 

All  things  sing  of  you.  Dear  Heart.  I  hear 
your  name  in  every  wind  that  blows  and  see 
your  face  in  every  flower.  I  cannot  wholly 
lose  you,  even  though  you  have  denied  your- 
self to  me. 

I  wonder  if  you  would  be  willing  to  go 
back,  not  knowing  that  I  love  you,  and  live 
our  happy  companionship  over  again  !  I  re- 
member last  summer,  out  in  the  woods,  we 
found  a  little  path  that  wandered  bravely  for 
a  space,  then  hesitated  and  tried  to  turn,  and 
was  finally  lost  among  the  trees.  You 
laughed  and  said  :  "See  the  poor  little  lost 
path ! "     And  now  I  have  one  of  my  own. 


H  /iDusictan 


95 


Would  you  go  back  to  those  dear  days  in 
the  woods  and  fields  ?  Or  is  your  life  already 
so  full  that  you  have  forgotten  me  ?  I  made 
a  large  part  of  it  then  and  now  I  am  little,  if 
anything,  to  you. 

The  memory  of  those  days  in  the  sweet, 
green,  translucent  forest  comes  back  to-night, 
not  wholly  without  pain.  I  see  your  face,  full 
of  pity  for  the  poor  lost  path — surely  you 
must  have  some  for  me. 

Would  you  go  back  and  live  it  all  over 
again?  **I  would  turn  back  with  you, 
Sweetheart, — ^yes,  from  the  gate  of  Paradise." 


Ubc 
ftoet  patb 


Zbe  (5arben  of  IPeara 

QLargbetto 


r  97 


f 


WARUM 


-^ 


-^ 


SCHUMAlfN 


m 


f 


mi^r^-t_ 


^ 


-w m m- 


^ 


^ 


^ 


Zbc  (5ar&en  of  l^eara 


99 


IN  the  Country  of  Time  there  is  an  old- 
fashioned  Garden  of  Years,  and  therein 
each  one  of  us  has  a  little  space  in  which  we 
toil  from  the  dawn  of  life  to  its  close.  We 
plant  Hope  and  there  springs  up  Despair,  and 
many  things  we  thought  would  comfort  us 
with  bloom  and  fragrance  only  sting  and 
burn. 

My  garden  is  not  completed  yet  and  some- 
times I  fear  that  I  shall  leave  my  task  half 
finished,  but  I  work  on  as  best  I  may,  hoping 
that  at  the  last  the  Wise  Gardener  may  forgive 
mistakes  and  only  take  heed  of  the  blossoms. 

I  was  only  a  child  when  I  found  it,  and  to 
me  it  was  a  fairyland.  I  played  all  day  with 
the  bees  and  birds  and  filled  my  hands  with 
flowers.  But  one  day  there  came  a  change. 
I  suddenly  woke  to  the  knowledge  that  it 
was  mine,  that  my  hands  must  sow  and  reap, 
and  as  the  planting,  so  should  the  harvest  be. 


Xargbetto 


lOO 


%ovc  Xettcts  of 


<fer^en  of 


It  was  hard  at  first  and  I  often  grew  weary 
and  faint.  But  not  until  my  planting  went 
astray  did  I  cry  out  in  grief.  I  wanted  only 
beauty  and  fragrance  and  there  came  up 
thorns.  I  made  the  paths  smooth  and  even 
and  in  the  morning  they  were  overgrown 
with  weeds  and  brambles. 

Alien  hands  interfered  with  my  sowing  and 
dropped  strange  seeds  in  the  ground.  The 
weeds  thrived  and  the  flowers  died,  and 
where  I  planted  heartsease  there  came  up  a 
nettle. 

I  took  courage  when  I  found  that  other  gar- 
dens were  the  same  as  mine.  There  is  one  I 
know  wherein  a  faithful  soul  has  worked 
bravely  and  patiently  much  longer  than  I  have. 
He  was  making  the  garden  ready  for  an  in- 
vited guest  and  the  Angel  of  Sorrow  came 
instead.  He  had  planted  his  heart's  blood, 
dreaming  that  Love  would  grow,  and  in  place 
of  it  God's  roses  bloomed. 

But  in  spite  of  the  weeds  and  thorns,  there 
is  one  spot  of  beauty  in  my  garden  that  fills 
me  with  joy.  When  I  am  faint,  I  turn  to- 
ward it  and  the  sight  refreshes  me. 

It  is  only  a  single  flower,  but  the  weeds  do 


H  nDustctan 


lOI 


not  grow  around  it,  and  it  is  always  in  bloom. 
It  is  a  tall,  stately  lily,  white  and  sweet  and 
fair,  and  so  divinely  fragrant  that  it  comforts 
my  tired  soul.  No  alien  fingers  have  marred 
the  beauty  of  it ;  no  strange  seeds  have  taken 
root  in  that  soil.  There  is  no  disappointment 
so  deep  that  the  breath  of  that  lily  is  not 
balm. 

Do  you  know  what  it  is,  my  Heart  ?  That 
single,  stately,  perfect  blossom,  for  whose 
sake  the  Gardener  will  forgive  all  that  is 
wrong,  is  my  love  for  you. 


Ube 

(Barren  of 

£?ear0 


OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

OF 


Zbc  Hrm?  of  tbe  Clover 

allegro  vivace 


103 


TERESITA  WALTZ 


CarrbSo 


104 


I05 


Zbc  Hrmij  of  tbe  Clover 

SOMETHING  is  always  happening  down  in  miiegro 
the  orchard.  I  went  there  two  or  three 
days  ago  and  saw  nothing  unusual.  The  grass 
was  green  and  soft  and  the  apple  blossoms 
were  quiet  and  demure.  But  a  strange  army 
has  invaded  my  country  and  encamped  boldly 
in  my  domain. 

All  through  the  grass  are  the  green  tents  of 
the  clover.  The  saucy  soldiers  look  up  at  me 
with  serene  impudence,  vouchsafing  only  a 
hurried  greeting.  One  would  think  I  was  the 
intruder  1 

They  have  stationed  their  picket-lines  from 
one  end  of  the  orchard  to  the  other.  Here  and 
there  a  scarlet  captain,  almost  bursting  with 
pride  in  his  new  uniform,  keeps  a  grufif  look- 
out for  the  enemy. 

The  pink-and-white  infantry  has  not  seen 
much  service  but  is  waging  a  defensive 
combat.      The    opposing    army   is    beating 


io6 


%ovc  Xetters  of 


oftbc 
Clover 


against  their  citadel  and  capturing  their 
stores. 

I  saw  one  of  the  enemy's  generals  to-day  in 
a  fierce  conflict  with  a  gorgeous  clover  cap- 
tain. His  trousers  were  black  and  yellow  and 
his  weapon  a  bayonet.  I  fear  the  Army  of 
the  Clover  stands  small  chance  of  winning 
the  battle  with  the  bees  1 

But  in  the  matter  of  hearts,  the  army  is  su- 
preme. The  tiny  soldiers  have  encamped 
wisely  at  the  foot  of  the  apple  trees.  Day  by 
day  they  turn  their  faces  upward  in  humble 
pleading  for  a  word  or  a  glance  from  the 
sweet  ladies  on  the  boughs. 

There  is  a  subtle  difference  in  the  Apple 
Blossom  damsels.  They  are  inclined  to  rustle 
their  skirts  with  importance,  but  there  is  a 
telltale  flush  on  more  than  one  fair  cheek 
which  tells  me  that  surrender  is  only  a  question 
of  time. 

A  few  have  already  gone  over  to  the  enemy, 
and  a  gallant  enemy  it  is.  A  sturdy  brigadier 
has  kept  a  loving  vigil  under  a  leafy  window 
with  his  eager  eyes  on  one  particular  blossom. 
She  is  so  sweet  and  white  and  fair  I  do  not 
wonder  at  his  choice. 


H  /IDusictan 


107 


My  Lady  Apple  Blossom  has  been  coy,  but 
the  patient  arms  have  been  outspread,  waiting 
for  her.  She  gave  in  at  last  and  dropped, 
slowly  and  yet  decidedly,  close  beside  him. 
And  others  will  follow. 

Every  wind  that  blows  brings  a  shower  of 
bloom  from  the  trees,  and  the  waiting  army 
below  rejoices.  I  notice  that  only  the  more 
mature  ladies  have  been  won  as  yet — ^the 
youngest  of  the  Apple  Blossoms  are  waiting. 
Some  will  wait  a  long  time,  for  they  are  the 
merest  children,  tiny  and  helpless,  in  long 
white  robes  and  wee  pink  hoods. 

I  suppose  it  is  natural  for  the  ladies  to  de- 
clare that  it  was  the  fault  of  the  wind.  Yet 
I  have  seen  more  than  one,  poised  on  ready 
wing,  only  waiting  for  the  slightest  breeze  as 
an  excuse.  And  I  think  the  Clover  Privates 
know,  for  I  have  seen  more  than  one  smile 
and  turn  his  head  aside  when  the  lady  of  his. 
heart  heaped  feminine  invective  upon  "that 
horrid  wind." 

The  gentlemen  among  the  Apple  Blossoms 
are  resenting  the  Fabian  warfare  which  results, 
strangely  enough,  in  the  loss  of  their  fairest 
Sabines.     And  in  their  leisure  moments,  they 


UbeBrm^ 

oftbe 

Clover 


io8 


%ovc  ^Letters  of  a  /iDustcian 


oftbc 
Clover 


are  taking  care  of  the  children,  for  more  than 
one  baby  Apple  Blossom  has  been  left  to  the 
awkward  care  of  its  father,  while  its  mother 
has  gone  in  the  train  of  the  Clover  Army, 
preferring  the  melody  of  the  pink  trumpets  to 
the  inarticulate  fragrance  of  her  own  children. 
Dear  Lady  of  my  Heart,  if  you  were  an 
Apple  Blossom  and  I  a  Clover  Private,  I  would 
wait  until  one  of  us  died  before  I  would  give 
you  up,  and  all  through  the  waiting  I  should 
pray  for  some  kindly  wind  to  blow  you  into 
my  outstretched  arms. 


PART  THREE 


109 


Zbc  IRlver  of  Kcet 

Bdagio  appa60fonato 


txx 


SLUMBER  SONG 


GlUBC 


fe5r=j= 


n-JW 


■J u 


^3^ 


.# — 0- 


jm m- 


;!■  ti.rr  t'^n^ 


i 


P 


£ 


IIS 


113 


^be  IRiver  of  IReet 


O  UMMER  has  stolen  upon  us  with  her  soft,      B5ag(o 

appass 
stonato 


<y  dreamy  wings,  and  the  world  is  singing 
her  praises.  With  a  ripple  of  leaves  and  a 
tinkle  of  streams,  the  full  earth  rolls  in  a 
stately  march,  from  sun  to  shadow  and  back 
to  sun  again. 

There  is  a  drowsy  murmur  of  bells  to-night, 
and  looking  across  the  fields,  I  can  see  the 
sheep  going  home.  I  have  lulled  myself  to 
sleep  many  a  time,  fancying  I  saw  them  going 
one  by  one  over  the  hill,  and  to-night,  in  the 
violet  shadow,  I  see  a  picture  so  like  that  of 
my  dreams  that  my  eyelids  droop  even  at  the 
memory  of  it. 

He  was  a  brave  man  who  first  closed  his 
eyes  in  sleep,  but  what  a  reward  was  his  ! 

Within  the  borders  of  Slumberland  lies  the 
Country  of  Dreams,  beyond  the  night  and  far, 
far  past  the  day.  The  breath  of  a  thousand 
springs  is  in  the  air  and  shadowy  wings  sweep 


114 


%ovc  ^Letters  ot 


Ube  tRiver 
oilRcat 


over  the  fields,  aflame  with  blossoms  that  only 
dreamers  know. 

There  is  a  river  winding  through  that  coun- 
try— they  call  it  the  River  of  Rest.  The  still, 
wide  waters  are  cool  and  clear,  and  there  is 
no  room  for  disappointment  on  that  lily-lined 
shore. 

The  sky  is  always  blue  there,  and  there  is 
no  heartache  in  my  dream.  You  put  your 
hand  in  mine  and  we  go  on  together,  through 
meadows  brave  with  bloom. 

The  dead,  lost  violets  of  my  happy  days 
with  you  blossom  afresh  in  those  fair  plains, 
and  I  watch  the  light  in  your  eyes,  forgetting 
the  cruel  gulf  of  years  that  must  ever  lie 
between  your  heart  and  mine. 

Dear  Lady,  those  fields  are  sweet  with  sum- 
mer now,  and  you  go  on,  without  knowing 
how  I  love  you.  But  it  is  only  a  step  to  the 
land  where  my  hungry  lips  can  speak  to  you 
and  my  empty  hands  grasp  yours,  and  when 
I  wake,  I  can  only  pray  that  I  may  dream 
again. 

The  hill  over  which  the  sheep  have  passed 
is  lost  in  the  shadow  now,  but  I  can  hear  the 
far-off  tinkle  which  means  ''follow."    Some 


H  /IDustcian 


115 


mystic  bell  is  calling  me  to  that  dear  land 
where  I  always  find  you,  and  I  shall  obey, 
though  I  must  pass  through  dark  to  reach  it. 

On  the  stately,  majestic  river  there  is  a 
shallop  moored  among  the  lilies  for  me,  and 
I  shall  find  you  there,  with  love  on  your  face 
and  the  gold  of  sunset  lying  on  your  hair.  We 
shall  sail  down  the  river  together,  dear  Heart, 
and  you  will  be  a  willing  guest 

In  fancy  I  can  see  you  now,  as  you  reach 
over  the  side  of  the  boat  and  trail  your  fingers 
in  the  water,  half  expecting  to  find  them 
stained  crimson  with  the  reflected  clouds. 
Then  you  will  look  up  at  me,  smiling,  and 
point  toward  the  west,  where,  upraised  on  a 
slender  pillar  of  purple  cloud,  is  the  faint, 
exquisite  lamp  of  a  star. 


of  IRest 


KoecB 

IBillCQXO 


117 


TO  A  WILD  ROSE 


MacDowkll 


oa 


^LJ. 


^& 


^ 


=2^ 

— kS>— 


Ii8 


IRoees 


119 


Is  there  an)^hing  in  the  world  like  a  rose  ? 
The  earth  is  glorious  with  them  to-night 
and  that  means  June.  Beneath  my  window  a 
stately  bush  flaunts  a  wealth  of  yellow  blos- 
soms that  make  a  luminous,  sweet  place,  even 
in  the  dark.  It  might  be  some  fair  Atalanta, 
flying  from  the  wind  with  her  golden  hair 
streaming  like  a  veil  behind  her. 

My  garden  is  carefully  tended,  but  there  is 
a  wilder,  dearer  one  on  every  roadside.  There 
no  man  has  planted  and  no  man  tills,  but 
masses  of  pink-and-white  bloom  are  drifted 
like  sunrise  clouds.  I  have  been  among  them 
all  day,  the  thorny,  sweet  wild  roses,  with 
all  the  fragrance  of  their  garden  sisters  and 
none  of  their  pretensions. 

With  some  of  them  it  is  a  time  of  penance 
and  prayer.  They  are  humbled  in  the  dust  of 
the  roadside,  their  heads  bowed  in  shame. 
Others,  less  conscientious,  have  dofl'ed  their 


Bllegro 


I20  %ovc  %cttcxs  of 

•Koses  "winter  garment  of  repentance,"  and  dance 
in  stately  fashion  with  every  passing  breeze. 

Among  the  penitents  are  some  in  priestly 
garb,  white  and  spotless,  swinging  perfumed 
censers.  They  seem  to  be  ministers  of  grace 
to  all  the  roses  in  the  field.  One  of  them  is 
particularly  austere  and  forbidding.  He  evi- 
dently frowns  on  all  gayety,  for  he  has  only 
one  pensioner  for  his  pardon — a  flushed,  tear- 
ful wild  rose,  who  kneels  at  his  feet  in  a 
guilty  confessional. 

For  what  sin  does  she  crave  absolution  ! 
There  can  be  only  one;  that  of  open,  wilful 
coquetry.  Sir  South  Wind  has  found  his  fate 
at  last  and  he  will  retire  broken-hearted  from 
the  contest  with  Mistress  Rose. 

There  is  a  yellow  rose  suffering  social  ostra- 
cism on  account  of  its  colour.  It  is  as  fair  and 
sweet  as  any  of  the  others,  but  because  pink 
is  the  prevailing  fashion  it  must  needs  be 
cast  aside.  Weeping,  it  sits  alone  in  a  dusty, 
deserted  place,  drooping  and  dejected.  There 
is  need  for  the  priestly  comfort  here,  but 
there  is  no  heaven  for  yellow  roses ;  only  for 
pink  and  white. 

To-morrow  I  shall  transplant  it  to  my  gar- 


H  /iDuatctan 


121 


den,  at  the  foot  of  the  brave,  bonny  Atalanta      "^oees 
beneath    my  window.     I  wish    there  were 
some  way  of  making  the  pink  roses  under- 
stand that  it  had  gone  to  a  better  place. 

There  is  no  colour  among  them  that  is  not 
copied  from  the  sky,  and  it  seems  as  if  some 
spirit  of  light  must  come  from  the  clouds, 
with  a  palette  of  sunrise  tints,  to  paint  each 
separate  rose  a  different  shade.  I  think  I  saw 
the  fairy  artist  at  his  work  this  morning,  for 
just  at  dawn  I  went  out  to  the  wild-rose 
garden,  walking  softly  lest  I  should  disturb 
their  sleep,  and  close  by  the  roadside  I  heard 
a  gentle  rustle  of  leaves. 

I  looked  down,  and  in  the  first  beam  of 
light  from  the  rising  sun  there  was  a  shim- 
mer of  gossamer  wings  and  just  a  flash  of 
rainbow  in  the  dewy  mist  above  the  grass. 


Cbllbren  of  tbe  Hit 

BnDante 


123 


ETUDE    Op.  25.    No.  9. 


124 


Cbilbren  of  tbe  air 


125 


A  FAIRY  frigate  floated  by  my  window 
to-day,  bound  for  some  port  on  the 
airy  sea.  The  Thistledown  fleet  has  not  cast 
off  its  anchor  yet  and  this  was  doubtless  a 
special  envoy  on  some  important  mission. 

In  spite  of  its  elusiveness,  I  captured  it  and 
set  it  free,  a  winged  kiss,  to  find  your  cheek. 
If  you  loved  me,  dear,  I  think  you  would 
know,  the  moment  the  downy  messenger 
came  near  you,  of  the  freight  it  held  for  you. 

What  compass  sets  the  tiny  ships  of  air 
toward  their  destined  harbour  I  They  seem 
to  be  the  sport  of  every  wind  that  blows,  and 
yet  they  steadfastly  sail  toward  the  blue,  dis- 
tant haven  that  is  to  mark  the  end  of  their 
journeying.  They  are  turned  aside,  but  not 
diverted,  by  untoward  fate. 

I  know  the  precious  cargo  that  lies  within 
the  hold — B.  baby  thistle,  cradled  in  softest 
down.    Within  that  tiny  speck  is  a  germ  of 


Bnt^ante 


126 


%ovc  betters  ot 


Cbflftten 

oftbe 

Bir 


life,  marvellously  potent,  that  next  summer 
will  blossom  into  a  royal  thistle,  stern  and 
haughty  in  his  thorny,  purple  majesty. 

And  so,  within  a  softer  shrine  than  any 
Thistledown  has  dared  to  dream  of,  lies  the 
precious  jewel  of  your  heart,  that  has  blos- 
somed into  a  woman. 

The  air  is  full  of  messages  to-day  and  the 
winged  postmen  are  going  back  and  forth  on 
some  momentous  errand.  Some  are  gorgeous 
in  black  and  scarlet  livery,  as  if  a  red  rose 
had  tried  to  masquerade  in  the  sable  of  the 
night,  that  none  might  know  she  had  taken 
wing. 

From  the  countless  yellow  butterflies  that 
have  been  sweeping  over  the  fields  to-day,  I 
think  the  golden  roses  must  have  determined 
to  leave  in  a  body.  There  are  only  a  few  left 
— all  the  rest  are  on  their  airy  journey. 

Even  with  the  coming  of  night  the  busy 
messengers  have  not  ceased  to  travel.  Out- 
side there  are  tiny  flashes  of  flame  that 
sparkle  for  a  moment  and  then  disappear. 

Perhaps  the  Thistledown  envoys  have  taken 
a  crimson  flagship  for  their  guide  through 
unknown  waters,  or  perhaps  the  butterflies 


H  /IDustcian 


127 


have  found  some  way  of  preserving  sunlight 
for  use  at  night. 

I  have  charged  every  one  of  them  with  a 
kiss  for  you.  Some  of  them  will  find  you, 
doubtless,  but  you  will  not  know  what  it  is 
that  touches  your  brow  so  softly.  You  will 
brush  away  the  impertinent  thistledown  and 
feel  aggrieved  at  the  butterflies,  and  I  know 
that  the  tiny  lamp-bearers  will  never  get 
within  arm's  length  of  you,  but  it  will  be 
strange  if  among  them  they  do  not  make  you 
think  once,  and  perhaps  not  unkindly,  of  me. 


oftbe 
Hit 


a  Moman'6  t)an& 

Xardbetto 


129 


CONSOLATION 


Mendelssohn 


S 


^ 


ae 


j^ — >'- 


35^ 


[&M.     -        P^< 


^ 


^ 


-4— 

1= 


:5=:^ 


130 


a  Moman*0  Ibanb 


131 


THE  morning-glories  outside  my  window 
greet  me  with  a  smile  every  day.  There 
is  one  particular  blossom,  white  and  delicately 
veined,  with  just  a  flush  of  rose  at  the  edge, 
that  makes  me  think  of  your  hand. 

No  man  ever  reached  the  heights  unless  he 
felt  the  touch  of  some  good  woman's  fingers, 
and  no  man's  life  has  been  strong  unless  he 
knew  of  that  sweet  sculpturing. 

From  the  day  of  his  birth  to  the  gate  of  his 
grave,  that  hand  is  his  ministering  angel.  It 
soothes  his  childish  fretting  and  closes  his 
eyes  in  his  last  slumber.  When  he  is  in  de- 
spair, it  bids  him  take  heart  again,  and  when 
his  body  is  racked  with  pain,  it  lies  with  soft 
coolness  on  his  fevered  face  and  charms  the 
pain  away. 

It  unlocks  the  door  of  glory  and  bids  him 
win  those  honors  of  which  fame  keeps  the 
key.     It  reaches  out  across  the  dark  to  touch 


Xargbetto 


'\ 


132 


Xox>c  ^Letters  of 


B 
Dan^ 


him  with  gentle  consolation  and  it  always 
thrills  him  with  its  sweet  tenderness.  Hold- 
ing to  that  offered  hand,  man  has  climbed 
from  the  depths  step  by  step,  blessing  the 
gracious  womanliness  that  offered  it. 

Upon  my  life  there  lies  the  print  of  a  wo- 
man's palm,  rosy,  soft,  and  tender — ah,  my 
Heart,  you  know  whose  hand  it  is  !  Day  by 
day  I  have  felt  it,  continually  leading  me  up- 
ward, smoothing  down  the  roughness  in  my 
nature,  and  teaching  me  to  live.  As  much  as 
I  am  more  than  I  might  have  been,  I  owe  to 
that  kindly  hand. 

The  knowledge  has  been  comforting  more 
than  once,  that  only  by  walking  a  little  way 
I  might  hold  it  in  my  own  for  an  instant, 
wondering  at  the  softness  of  it  and  gaining 
strength  from  its  power. 

And  now,  just  because  you  know  that  I 
love  you  better  than  all  the  world  beside,  I 
can  never  touch  your  hand  again,  never  feel 
your  palm  against  mine,  never  reach  out  in 
sorrow  or  discouragement,  to  learn  its  mes- 
sage of  cheer. 

It  is  a  strange  decree  of  Fate  that  when  a 
man  loves  a  woman  he  must  give  up  every- 


H  /IDustctan 


133 


thing  he  has  of  hers,  if  she  cannot  give  him 
all.     I  wonder  if  they  think  Love  ever  forgets ! 

But  though  I  cannot  see  you  nor  have  even 
a  word  from  you,  I  am  happy  because  I  can 
love  you  and  in  fancy  have  you  daily  by  my 
side.  And  I  do  not  need  to  touch  your  hand 
to  know  all  its  gentle  tenderness,  for  just  by 
thinking  of  you  I  can  feel  it,  warm  and  soft, 
within  my  own. 

The  memory  of  it  shall  keep  me  from  de- 
spair, and  all  my  life  I  shall  thank  God  that  I 
have  known  the  touch  of  it  once,  to  lead  me 
to  the  heights  I  could  never  reach  without  it 
and  to  replace  my  doubt  and  unbelief  with  a 
simple,  reverent  trust 


TRIloman's 


Xatdbetto 


135 


VENETIAN  BOAT  SONG 


MENDBLSSOHir 


(te 


^t=9^ 


^^=9 


^ 


*1      ^  J 


^M- 


i 


13b 


a  Dream^^Sbip 


137 


LAST  night  I  dreamed  that  I  stood  on  the 
sea  shore,  watching  the  leaning  sails  of 
my  ship  sailing  forth  in  search  of  gold.  Her 
new  colors  flew  bravely  at  the  masthead  and 
I  looked  until  I  could  see  no  longer.  When  I 
turned  back,  you  stood  beside  me,  your  eyes 
alight  with  love,  and  I  put  you  away.  I  said : 
**Wait  till  the  ship  comes  back — ^then  there 
will  be  gold." 

I  watched  in  the  shadow  with  silent  eager- 
ness, but  no  sail  came  above  the  horizon. 
Somewhere,  out  on  that  measureless  blue 
meadow,  all  my  hopes  were  drifting.  You 
held  out  your  arms  to  me  and  said  :  "Why 
wait  for  the  ship  to  come  back  ?  It  is  I  you 
need,  not  gold." 

I  put  you  away  again,  and  you  went  on 
down  the  sand  with  a  pathetic  droop  in  your 
shoulders.  I  was  going  to  follow  you,  but 
just  then  I  saw  a  sail.      It  shone  whitely 


lar^betto 


138 


%ovc  ^Letters  of 


B 

Sreants 
Sbip 


against  the  sunrise  after  the  long,  dark  night, 
and  I  called  to  you  to  come  back,  but  you 
went  on  and  on.  Call  as  I  might,  you  did 
not  hear.  1  knew  there  were  gold  and  jewels 
and  silks  and  spices  for  you,  but  you  wanted 
none  of  them. 

I  looked  back  to  the  sea  and  it  was  grey. 
The  waters,  remembering,  beat  cold  on  the 
shore.  I  listened  in  vain  for  your  pleading 
voice,  and  the  ship  came  nearer  and  nearer, 
laden  with  spices  and  gold. 

The  sea  birds  cried  hoarsely,  thronging  over 
the  masthead  and  flying  round  the  streaming 
colors,  but  I  had  no  eyes  for  the  approaching 
treasure.  Deep  down  in  my  soul  throbbed  a 
bitter,  stinging  pain.  I  had  lost  you  ;  but  my 
ship  was  coming  in. 

Dear  Lady  of  my  Heart,  I  never  awoke  from 
a  dream  so  gladly  as  from  that.  To  think 
that  you  should  hold  out  your  arms  to  me 
and  I  should  turn  away  !  I  have  held  out 
mine  to  you  and  you  have  turned  aside,  but 
that  was  your  privilege. 

I  see,  of  course,  that  you  can  never  love 
me,  but  it  seems  as  if  you  must. 

I  struck  my  tuning-fork  near  my  violin  to- 


H  /IDustctan 


139 


day,  and  the  string  vibrated  in  reply,  I  tried 
it  with  the  piano  and  the  result  was  the  same. 
I  have  sounded  a  single  string  on  my  violin 
near  an  organ  pipe  of  the  same  tone,  and  the 
dark,  hollow  shaft  took  up  the  note  in  answer. 
So  why  should  not  my  love  for  you  awake  at 
least  an  echo  in  your  heart  ? 

If  it  could  be  given  me  to  hear  the  faintest 
responding  tone,  I  think  that  single,  half- 
hushed  note  would  swell  through  my  soul 
like  the  resonant  majesty  of  a  symphony. 


B 

S)reams: 
Sbip 


Zhc  flDotb  anb  tbe  Star 

5)oloroso 


141 


FUNERAL  MARCH 


Chopin 


f 


r  r  ^ 


ii^ 


«> 


,^^ 


rff  hlP 


i^ 


Pea. 


'Pear 


f 


^ 


^ 


-^ff-H^ 


S^SiE 


rT7^  n'P 


n:^  rn^ 


PBd. 


*    i^, 


JJL2 


Z\)c  fiDotb  an&  tbe  Star 


143 


THE  fields  are  green  with  new  life.  The 
inward  heart  of  the  wheat  is  throbbing 
with  a  thousand  pulses  that  mean  a  harvest 
by  and  by. 

Each  single  spire  of  green  reaches  down 
into  the  ground  and  draws  up  the  food  it 
needs,  making  it  into  spear  and  blossom.  I 
have  been  wondering  what  goes  on  under  the 
surface  of  the  ground  and  if  there  is  another 
life  below. 

Somewhere  there  must  be  a  stairway,  lead- 
ing from  the  heat  of  summer  down  into  those 
cool,  dark  chambers,  through  mysterious 
winding  passages.  The  trees  find  strength 
and  beauty  down  there,  the  wheat  finds  all 
its  fibre  and  the  flowers  find  their  blossoms. 

I  can  dream  of  nothing  there  for  me  except 
rest  and  I  should  surely  find  that.  The  blind 
rain  would  not  beat  coldly  on  me  then,  though 
my  face  should  be  turned  upward  to  the  grass, 


S^oloroso 


144 


3tore  ^Letters  ot 


TTbe  asiotb 

anb  tbe 

Star 


and  the  wind  could  not  pierce  me  with  its 
cold.  No  word  of  kindness  could  reach  me 
there,  but  the  harsh  ones  would  go  on  by. 
The  green  leaves  would  murmur  afresh  every 
spring,  and  I  should  not  hear  their  gentle 
music — no  sound  of  earth  would  awaken  me. 

If  you  were  lying  there,  I  should  find  that 
stairway  and  descend.  You  would  not  know, 
but  I  would,  for  even  in  the  earth  beside  you 
I  should  dream  of  loving  you. 

The  wheat-fields  are  joyous  to-day,  but  I 
am  strangely  sad.  The  birds  sing,  and  my 
heart  beats  out  only  pain.  My  journey  is  so 
lonely  that  I  am  beginning  to  falter^  even  with 
the  memory  of  you  to  comfort  me.  Eight 
months  have  passed,  and  the  old,  bitter  grief 
has  not  lessened.  I  still  flutter  vainly,  like  a 
moth,  around  your  candle-flame. 

Will  it  ever  change  ?  I  think  of  you  con- 
stantly and  it  should  mean  happiness,  but 
sometimes  there  comes  a  pain  so  deep  and 
wide  that  my  heart  cries  out  with  the  bitter- 
ness of  it. 

You  are  far  away  from  me — even  in  death 
I  could  not  hope  to  reach  you.  It  is  the  old 
story  of  the  moth  aspiring  to  the  star.     The 


H  /lDu6tctan 


145 


light  dazzles  me  and  I  forget  and  go  too  near, 
and,  turning  away  with  blinded  eyes,  I  only 
see  the  dark. 

I  think  the  night  cannot  be  far  away,  my 
Lady,  when  I  shall  turn  away  and  sink,  suf- 
fering, to  the  ground.  But  I  shall  not  mind 
the  pain  of  it  so  much,  because  I  have  seen 
the  white  beauty  of  the  flame. 


Ube  ttbotb 

anZ)  tbe 

Star 


Hvobecl  at  Davon 

%llcQvo  Vivace 


147 


HARK,  HARK,  THE  LARK 
8va 


SCHUBERTVLISZT 


148 


149 


Hwbeel  at  2)awn 

THAT  first  harbinger  of  autumn,  the  golden-  micgvo 
rod,  has  taken  possession  of  the  fields  ^^"^^^^ 
and  roadways.  I  wheeled  through  aromatic 
aisles  of  it  this  morning,  just  before  sunrise. 

There  is  no  joy  like  that — to  follow  the 
wind  at  dawn,  with  a  living,  sparkling  thing 
of  steel  for  a  steed.  You  were  beside  me 
this  morning  and  the  vision  of  you  was  so 
real  that  I  once  or  twice  put  out  my  hand  to 
touch  you  when  we  came  to  a  steep  hill. 

You  are  a  mischievous  little  witch  about 
hill-climbing.  I  have  a  suspicion  that  you  re- 
gard a  steep  ascent  as  the  keenest  pleasure.  I 
know  your  feet  are  busy,  but  your  eyes  dance 
with  fun,  and  I  notice  that  when  I  have  your 
hand  in  mine,  I  am  invariably  ahead.  But  I 
rather  like  it,  Sweetheart ;  one  would  gladly 
be  any  kind  of  a  horse  if  the  coach  might 
always  hold  so  sweet  an  occupant 

Oh,  the  exultant  thrill  of  life,  when  one  can 


I50 


Xo\?e  Xettets  of  a  /iDusician 


BwbeeC  at 
S>awn 


be  awheel  in  an  autumn  dawn  !  Every  muscle 
seems  to  sing  in  rapturous  accord.  If  the 
birds  find  the  same  delight  in  flying,  it  is  not 
strange  that  every  sunrise  is  a  chorus  and 
every  grove  a  temple  of  song. 

Down  on  the  goldenrod  road  is  a  company 
of  purple  asters,  the  first  of  the  stately  mon- 
archs  of  the  field  that  make  the  days  of 
autumn  a  coronation.  The  nodding  golden- 
rod  woke  this  morning  with  a  half-sleepy 
sigh,  while  the  aster  was  still  dreaming  of 
the  long,  sweet  days  yet  to  come. 

On  I  sped  toward  the  wide  gates  of  Eastern 
gold.  Then  there  was  a  sheen  of  light  on  the 
handle-bar  and  I  knew  the  day  had  begun.  Out 
in  the  meadow,  across  the  blowing  clover,  a 
meadow-lark  soared  aloft  and  sang  as  only  a 
meadow-lark  can  sing,  in  greeting  to  the  sun. 

From  out  the  silvery  throat  of  that  child  of 
the  morning  came  such  a  flood  of  melody 
that  I  stopped  to  listen.  His  breast  was  ashine 
with  dew,  his  wings  were  thrilling  with 
abounding,  triumphant  life.  The  wind  came 
across  the  clover,  bringing  a  shaft  of  light 
that  touched  my  wheels  with  silver,  and  in 
that  paean  of  praise  my  heart  joined  too. 


largbetto 


151 


BY  THE  SEA 


^ 


Schubert 


m 


a: 


41 


:=P 


152 


153 


3floob  Zlc^c 

HARVEST  is  beginning  and  the  tide  of  the 
year  is  at  flood  now.  Every  bud  and 
blossom  of  spring  and  summer  has  attained 
the  purpose  of  its  life  in  fruit.  The  fields  are 
golden  and  glorious  and  the  world  is  radiant 
with  beauty. 

All  day,  with  the  hum  of  bees  and  the  twit- 
tering of  birds,  comes  the  soft  melody  of 
reaping.  Hay  and  clover  have  filled  the  air 
with  their  dying,  fragrant  breath,  and  now 
the  wheat  shall  follow. 

This  time  of  year  makes  me  think  of  Tenny- 
son's death-bed.  I  do  not  believe  even  his 
poet  fancy  could  have  pictured  a  more  beauti- 
ful ending  to  a  life  so  rich  with  song. 

I  can  look  across  the  fields  and  fancy  it  is 
England,  and  that  in  a  little  room  whose 
twilight  stillness  my  eyes  can  penetrate,  the 
Master  lies  in  seeming  sleep.  He  is  stately  in 
his  repose  and  the  light  on  his  face  seems  to 


Xargbetto 


154  %ovc  ^Letters  ot 


yiooD       come  from  within,  rather  than  from  without. 

'^^  The  harvest-fields  below,  where  the  grain 

is  bound  in  sheaves,  are  mellowed  by  the  sun- 
set, then  by  the  violet  shadows  of  twilight, 
and  then  dark.  But  the  harvest  moon  swings 
up,  its  slow  light  changing  from  red  to  gold. 

"  Twilight  and  evening  bell 

And  after  that — the  dark — " 

His  own  words,  vibrant  with  meaning, 
strike  with  a  new  melody  upon  the  ear. 
Twilight  has  passed,  the  echo  of  the  evening 
bell  has  died  away,  and  now  comes  the  dark. 

The  moon  rises  higher  and  higher  in  the 
heavens  and  makes  the  little  room  as  bright 
as  day.  The  Master  turns  and  asks  for  his 
Shakespeare.  The  old,  worn  volume,  ever 
new,  is  put  into  his  hands,  and  holding  it,  he 
repeats  softly  the  dirge  from  **Cymbeline." 

"  Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  th'  sun, 
Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages  ; 
Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done 
Home  art  gone,  and  ta'enthy  wages." 

Could  there  be  a  time  so  meet  as  harvest 
for  his  life  to  be  gathered  in  ?  There  is  no 
brighter  sheaf  in  the  field  of  immortals,  saving 
only  him  whose  words  the  dying  Master 
repeated. 


H  Musician 


155 


*'  Fear  no  more  the  lightning  flash 

Nor  th'  all  dreaded  thunder-stone  ; 
Fear  not  slander,  censure  rash  ; 
Thou  hast  finished  joy  and  moan — " 

With  the  last  words  of  the  dirge  England's 
light  went  out,  and  in  with  her  harvest  went 
her  tears. 

With  every  wheat-field  I  have  seen,  has 
come  that  memory  of  the  Laureate's  last  hour. 
He  had  wished  to  go  out  with  the  tide,  with 
'*no  moaning  of  the  bar,"  and  **no  sadness 
of  farewell." 

The  tide  of  the  year  was  swelling  at  flood 
when  he  joined  it,  and  its  recession  took  a 
greater  gift  than  its  flow  had  brought.  But 
he  took  no  reck  of  the  world's  loss,  for  he 
was  face  to  face  with  his  Pilot — "across  the 
bar." 


jflood 


Xatdo 


157 


LITANY 


Schubert 


^fe 


Ruh'n     in    Prie  -  de 


al 


le 


See 


len. 


I5» 


159 


Zvoo  1barve0t«»3fielb0 

1HAVE  been  walking  through  the  harvest-  xargo 
fields  to-night,  and  you  have  been  beside 
me,  though  you  did  not  know.  The  harvest 
moon  was  at  full  and  its  mellow  light  flooded 
all  the  earth  with  gold.  I  grew  faint  with 
longing  to  tell  you  all  the  love  of  which  you 
can  never  dream  and  of  which  words  are  too 
weak  to  carry  the  meaning. 

Heart-deep  among  the  sheaves  of  ripened 
wheat,  I  seemed  to  feel  your  dear  arms  cling- 
ing. Undreamed-of  tenderness  was  in  your 
eyes,  and  my  soul  sung  in  rapture  such  as 
neither  bird  nor  flute  could  reach.  Then,  you 
let  me  touch  your  lips. 

Half  of  the  field  has  not  been  touched  by 
the  reapers,  and  here  the  scarlet  poppies  were 
drifting  their  brave  bloom  through  the  gold.  If 
the  cup  of  slumber  could  give  me  the  dream  of 
your  arms  and  lips,  I  would  drain  it  to  its  dregs 
to-night  and  live  always  in  your  tenderness. 

But  1  have  nothing  to  look  forward  to,  save 


i6o 


%ovc  ^Letters  ot  a  jflDusiclan 


that  other  field  I  saw  to-night,  on  the  side 
of  the  hill. 

There  is  a  garnered  treasure  there  and  the 
winnowing  is  over.  Stately  shafts  of  bridal 
white  keep  solemn  guard — ^they  are  the  sen- 
tinels in  God's  harvest-field. 

No  poppies  drift  their  riotous  bloom  on 
that  hillside  and  no  sound  of  reaping  breaks 
the  stillness.  The  songs  are  hushed  and  the 
singers  pass  that  field  in  reverent  silence 
because  they  cannot  understand  its  harvest. 

We  never  learn  that  mystery  until  after  we 
have  solved  it,  and  after  knowing,  we  cannot 
tell.  Each  must  journey  for  himself  to  the 
country  whose  margin  lies  just  beyond  the 
bounds  of  our  every-day  life,  and  yet  is  as 
strange  and  as  vast  as  the  sea. 

The  poppies  have  no  ministry  there,  for 
they  who  sleep  in  that  country  need  no  silken 
leaves  to  bring  them  rest. 

Some  day  my  harvest  will  be  gathered  in, 
small  and  scant  as  it  is,  but  I  know  the  Reaper 
will  forgive  its  pathetic,  broken  store.  And 
in  whatever  land  you  dwell,  I  want  my  face 
turned  toward  you,  so  that  if  there  be  dream- 
ing in  the  dark,  I  may  dream  of  you. 


I 


I 


\; 


I 


Z\)c  angel  of  tbe  2)arhcr  Brinft 

2)0l0C060 


i6i 


MISERERE 


Verdi 


^-t^-^t-r 


162 


163 


Zbc  UriQcl  of  tbe  Darher  2)rinft 

IT  has  been  almost  a  year  since  I  saw  your 
face,  and  every  day  now  brings  a  shud- 
dering pain.  Yesterday  and  to-day  I  have 
not  been  able  to  see  you  in  my  fancy,  to  hear 
your  voice,  or  to  touch  your  hand.  I  cannot 
remember  your  eyes  or  lips  or  hair,  and  only 
a  week  ago  I  could  at  any  moment  find  you 
by  my  side.  I  cannot  write  to  you  any  longer 
and  watch  with  a  foolish  fancy  for  your 
answer.  Everything  is  mysteriously  changed. 
I  only  know  that  I  love  you  and  have  lost  you 
— ^that  even  the  vision  of  you  is  no  longer 
mine. 

You  cannot  imagine  what  a  comfort  it  has 
been  to  have  you  always  by  my  side.  And 
now  I  have  lost  you  and  the  world  is  cold.  I 
cannot  write  it — I  can  only  feel,  and  reach  out 
vainly  through  my  despair  for  something — I 
know  not  what. 

I  have  been  trying  to  compose,  but  I  cannot 


Bolocoso 


164 


%ovc  OLettcrs  ot  H  /Musician 


of  tbe 

S)acfter 

S>dnft 


work.  I  had  a  sonata  for  violin  and  piano 
almost  finished,  and  it  was  to  be  dedicated  to 
you.  I  did  not  tell  you  before  because  I 
wanted  to  surprise  you,  and  now  I  have  lost 
you  I 

I  cry  out,  **  Come  back  !  come  back  I "  but 
you  take  no  heed.  My  vision  has  forever  left 
me  and  I  am  desolate  and  alone. 

One  of  the  quatrains  in  the  "Rubaiyat" 
has  been  singing  itself  over  and  over — 

"  So  when  the  Angel  of  the  Darker  Drink 
At  last  shall  find  you  by  the  river-brink 
And,  offering  his  Cup,  invite  your  soul 
Forth  to  your  lips  to  quaff— you  shall  not  shrink." 

If  that  gracious  Angel  were  to  offer  his  Cup 
to  me,  how  gladly  would  I  drink  it !  I  would 
turn  away  from  the  black  of  this  world  with- 
out you,  and  bury  my  face  in  his  grey,  soft 
wings.  No  grave  roof  can  be  heavier  than 
my  despair.  I  have  lost  you — lost  you — ^lost 
you  ! 

The  room  seems  to  whirl  and  everything  is 
growing  black.  I  write  these  last  few  lines 
without  being  able  to  see  the  paper.  It  does 
not  matter.  I  have  lost  you — lost  you  !  It  is 
dark — so  dark 


H  IKIlc&Mnd  fIDarcb 

^uDilate 


165 


BRIDAL  CHORUS 


m 


■S    J  L  J.^ 


^*=?=«f 


Wagnkr 

— 1 


I66 


167 


a  Mebbing  flDarcb 

Dearest  Lady  : 

JUST  one  more  letter,  which  I  am  going  to 
put  into  your  own  hands  with  the  violets 
you  said  you  would  wear  for  me,  even  if  you 
had  to  hide  them  under  the  laces  of  your 
gown. 

If  I  had  dreamed  that  the  letters  I  posted  in 
my  trunk  would  eventually  attain  the  dignity 
of  a  real  letter-box,  I  should  have  taken  better 
care  of  them.  You  would  never  have  had 
them,  anyway,  if  they  had  not  found  them 
while  I  was  too  ill  to  speak  or  to  know  what 
they  were  doing,  but  with  all  my  soul  I  bless 
the  hand  that  interfered. 

I  have  no  idea  now  of  what  I  wrote,  and 
you,  with  your  sovereign  right,  have  refused 
to  let  me  have  even  a  glimpse  of  my  own 
pages.  You  say  they  are  not  mine,  but  yours, 
and  you  are  right,  for  I  am  yours,  and  what- 
ever I  possess  is  yours,  wholly  and  eternally. 


aubilatc 


i68 


%ovc  Xetters  of 


iffiarcb 


Do  you  know  what  I  thought,  my  Life, 
when  I  woke  out  of  the  delirium  of  fever  and 
found  you  sitting  beside  me,  with  my  hand  in 
yours  ?  I  thought  I  had  reached  Heaven,  and 
instead  of  rewarding  me  with  a  crown  of 
righteousness,  God  had  given  me  you.  I  was 
afraid  to  speak  for  fear  you  would  vanish, 
and  I  had  no  idea  you  were  real,  until  you 
leaned  down  with  tears  in  your  eyes  and  a 
flush  on  your  cheek,  and — no,  I  cannot  write 
it,  even  to  you. 

The  hours  are  passing  on  leaden  feet  this 
afternoon  and  it  seems  as  if  the  evening  will 
never  come.  But  I  know  that  it  will,  and 
that  after  all  these  weeks  of  confusion,  I  shall 
see  you  alone  for  one  dear  moment,  in  the 
shimmering  white  of  your  wedding  gown. 
And  if  you  will  let  me,  I  shall  pin  the  violets 
over  the  truest  heart  in  the  world,  and  ask 
them  to  tell  you  better  than  I  can  do,  of  the 
wealth  of  love  that  is  yours. 

You  must  know  it,  even  if  my  words  are 
too  weak  to  tell  you,  for  nothing  but  your 
belief  in  it  and  a  little  of  it  in  your  own  heart 
could  have  made  you  come  to  me  as  you  did. 

In  fancy  I  can  hear  the  organ  now,  pealing 


H  /IDustctan 


169 


out  the  sonorous  chords  of  the  wedding  march 
from  Lohengrin.  There  is  nothing  else  in  the 
world  that  could  possibly  do.  Had  I  the  gift, 
I  should  write  one,  but  no  organ  has  yet  been 
builded  that  could  express  my  joy. 

The  chancel  is  sweet  with  bride  roses — 1 
have  seen  it  this  afternoon — ^and  vines  are 
swinging  everywhere.  There  will  be  lights  and 
the  Lohengrin  music,  but  I  shall  see  nothing 
but  your  face,  hear  nothing  but  your  soft, 
dreamy  voice,  saying  over  after  that  blessed 
Bishop  the  things  he  will  ask  you  to  say,  and 
when  he  bids  me  seal  the  compact,  I  know 
but  too  well  that  the  lights  will  go  out  for  me 
and  that  I  shall  have  only  your  lips  in  the  dark. 

Sweet,  brave  little  soul,  can  you  trust  your- 
self to  me  for  all  the  years  to  come  ?  It  is  not 
a  promise,  but  a  consecration,  when  I  say 
that  you  have  placed  your  faith  aright. 

Since  I  began  to  talk  to  you,  another  hour 
has  flown  by,  and  I  must  bring  this  letter  to 
a  close.  It  is  the  last  I  can  ever  write  you, 
for  I  am  never  going  to  leave  your  side 
again. 

Because  I  love  you,  better  than  all  the  world 
beside,  I  shall  hold  your  hand  in  mine  till  one 


B 

iDaccb 


170 


Xot>e  betters  of  H  /IDusician 


XOle&&tn0 
Aaccb 


of  US  is  summoned,  and  if  that  one  be  you,  I 
shall  follow,  through  whatever  countries  you 
may  go,  and  at  the  end  of  your  journey  hold 
you  fast,  for  forever  and  a  day. 


THE  END 


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Mar  *»i  ij-i 

"'«fi  A^i  I94f  1^ 

.JAN  la  1947 

.  ii  !  k  . 

«  "  f  i  /* — 

. 

20Mav5lPA 
J8May'5,Ly 

' 

1 

LD21-100ni-7,'33 

rB  39687 


*  J  W  "''  '"X  *j'  '•  "r 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CAIylFORNIA  WBRARY 


